


the persistence of memory.

by dickovny



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Malcolm Tucker has a Reckoning, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Goolding Inquiry, breaking news: actions have consequences, cw: car accidents, cw: discussion of addiction, this will be angsty and i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28099857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickovny/pseuds/dickovny
Summary: Malcolm Tucker must attend an anger management course as a condition of his parole.Nicola Murray is not an ideal classmate.
Relationships: Nicola Murray/Malcolm Tucker, somewhat malcolm/jamie
Comments: 119
Kudos: 80





	1. [past is] prologue.

_Je ne remember rien._

The thought rattles around his cranium as he picks at the fraying underside of his chair. There is an unpleasant screech, wobbly metal chair legs scraping against linoleum. A youngish man - with too many piercings and no hair - petulantly flings himself into a seat to his right. He, like everyone else in this godforsaken room, has no desire to be here. With five minutes left until the class begins, the vacant chair between them is the only seat left in the room. Looking up at the humming fluorescent light panel, marveling at the legion of dead flies trapped behind the plastic, he prays to a God he does not believe in that it remains that way. 

_Je ne remember rien._

This statement was a lie.

This statement was a lie for two reasons. The first being that Malcolm Tucker _obviously_ remembered exactly how those NHS numbers he should not have came to be in his possession. It was a simple lie told by a man who knew that the jig was up. The fix was in. The way the Baroness glared at him from atop her glasses - the silence in the gallery behind him. It all indicated that he would need to urgently phone his legal representation the moment he left the room. It was a child’s lie. A knee-jerk ‘I didn’t do it’ spat in the face of clear evidence to the contrary.

The second being that Malcolm Tucker remembers _everything_. There is the odd slipped detail here and there, like the name of a lesser colleague’s child. Those are blessed little circumstances, a reprieve from the constant barrage of total recollection. Photographic mem’ry, his mam called it. She was always proud of her son’s uncanny knack for remembering things, trotting him out in front of family and friends like it was some kind of parlour trick. Never understanding the nature of the thing, the way that it’s left the inside of his skull decoupaged with scraps of hurts and joys. The smell of an exhaust pipe or the feel of a burnt tongue rubbing against his incisors. A piece of Chopin that he cannot hear without an accompanying rise of bile in the back of his throat. 

This has never afforded him the opportunity for self-doubt. To reconsider for one moment any choice - the floodgates would open, miring him in a bog of slights and sacrifices. He is forced to believe each act a necessity. To live by a code of ruthless pragmatism. There is no room in Malcolm Tucker’s spook-house brain for regret.

There are certain drawbacks to this method of living, of course. One must conceive of themselves as being wholly different from those around them. Malcolm is right - everyone else is wrong. That is the way things are, forever and ever, amen. This in turn becomes a complete severing of ties to one’s peers. Closeness engenders clouded judgment and regard for other people’s _feelings._ And that leaves room for mistakes. 

[This is also why, retrospectively, the drugs and drink were a bad idea. Those memories - they have been filed into the internal narrative as a cautionary tale. A Malcolm that should not have been and will never be again. The only living witness - so to speak - of that whole affair will more than likely never speak to him again. So be it.]

But the larger issue became painfully evident the more time Malcolm had to spend with himself.

His sentencing was pitifully light. Two years in a minimum-security facility. A repository for tax evaders and petty corporate thieves. A place with time spent outside in the sun and a rather well-stocked library. Three square meals and clean uniforms. A slap on the wrist and a big show for the public. The legal fees were more punishing than anything else.

Well. Not anything. 

Being behind bars - no matter how gilded the cage - is a matter of _time._ The passage of minutes and hours and days into months. Within this slurry and slog of confinement, it was not his fellow inmates that presented the discomfort. It was Malcolm’s own mind.

There are memories that he can withstand. Some he even enjoys. He feels no pain when confronted by thoughts of Hugh Abbott or some god-awful hack from the Mail. There are plenty of bollockings that bring a craggy smile to his face. There is significant amusement when he is reminded of Ollie Reeder laid-up in a hospital bed - however that memory is tinged with a vague unease. A creeping guilt at pushing the boy into becoming something akin to himself. 

[This line of thinking always brings him to Jamie - of a flat in Glasgow that leaked when it rained and a mattress on the floor. Of bruises and little bags of white powder. That corridor of recollection is one that he does not frequent voluntarily. If he could burn the whole wing to a pile of smoldering ash he would.]

But the memories that really _fuck_ him - the ones that haunt him in such a frankly fucking Dickensian capacity - are a pair of emerald eyes. Always searching his, always trying to see the man trapped inside the burning pillar of spite. No one looked at him like that. Nobody had the _gall._ Not in years. She looked at him like she knew him.

And that knowledge always caused her pain.

He was frequently forced to recall the agony of choice in those eyes when he asked her to stay. She could’ve been happy. She could’ve taken her massive gaggle of fucking kids and fled to all the way to America. An ocean away from him. She could’ve been _happy._ But she looked in his eyes and she saw his raw stupid need. He could even hear her voice reverberating in his head, cracking as she agreed to stay _for him_ against her own better judgement.

And how did he repay her? When he tried to sleep each night on his not-quite-uncomfortable cot, he was visited by the same ridiculous flashes of green. Sitting at Dan Miller’s desk. And the dumb animal hurt in them as he tore her to ribbons. Kicked her over and over while she was down. It was an exceptional amount of vitriol, even for himself. Maybe he hoped that if he hurt her enough, she’d stop _looking_ at him like that. 

It was one of these nighttime visitations from the ghost of Glummy Fuckin’ Mummy Past that prematurely suspended Malcolm’s sentence, thirteen months in. A particularly troubling episode that stayed with him the whole next day. He couldn’t escape that feeling of guilt, clinging to him like the inexplicable sweat on his skin or the constant spells of nausea. There was a tingling in his left arm, followed by a sharp pain in his abdomen. He didn’t think of them - he thought only of _her_ and how she never should’ve cut her hair and the imperceptible twitch of her lips when he called her a _bag of fucking useless doubt -_ and then the pains started to coordinate, which was more than slightly fucking concerning. When he collapsed in the library, tumbling a shelf of Le Carres to the floor along with him, he thought absurdly of her little stocking feet against the hotel room carpet at Eastbourne. 

They seemed so harmless. 

She seemed so harmless.

Which is why it’s thoroughly unreasonable that her eyes had caused him a ‘cardiac event.’

The prison did not want a former government employee and mildly famous public figure to shrivel up and die in their facility. The optics of such a thing are less than ideal. Even less than ideal is the operation of Malcolm’s heart. 

[This fact did not surprise him. This fact surprises absolutely no one who has ever interacted with him. The fact that the old ticker has functioned this long under the duress that he consistently besieges it with is nothing short of a miracle. Malcolm expected the thing to burst _years_ ago. There was at one point a pool in the office with regards to the date of Malcolm's inevitable massive fucking coronary.] 

Therefore, Malcolm’s sentence was commuted. He was released on parole, adhering to three conditions.

> **One: He may not leave London without the express permission of his parole officer _and_ the board _and_ his physician. **This is not hard. He does not have anywhere he particularly wants to go, other than down a shower drain or into a long dark fucking slumber or a nice cozy K-hole. 
> 
> **Two: He must remain gainfully employed.** This is not hard. A short phone call landed him a consulting position for a PR firm owned by a friend of a friend. Malcolm Tucker, despite his rather public undoing, is still imminently competent and employable in the private sector. Shit, some of his cellmates will likely be eventual colleagues.
> 
> **Three: He must adhere to the advice of his physician.** This is not hard. He is prescribed a daily pile of pills, long meditative walks, and the avoidance of stress. This last point entails compulsory enrollment in an anger management course. While not _ideal,_ an hour-long class a week for ten weeks is preferable to another eleven months alone with those ridiculous eyes following him around.

It was in this particular class that he now sat.

There had been a feeling of hesitation, wandering the halls of this unremarkable municipal facility in search of whatever fucking room he was supposed to be at for a class he doesn’t particularly want to take. He passed it twice, the room number partially obscured by a flyer for a community theater performance that he couldn’t give two shits about. And upon opening the door, the same diffidence - a fear of being _recognized._

This fear was unfounded - prison actually caused him to _gain_ weight. Eating regularly and not subsiding on a metric fuckton of caffeine put a healthy stone on his wiry frame. Combined with the hearty growth of beard and the thick-framed glasses he’s taken to wearing, no one short of Sam or his own sister would know at first glance who they’re looking at. And even _they_ might do a double-take.

There are several chairs arranged in a semi-circle on the shitty linoleum floor, and Malcolm had taken the one on the furthest left. The farthest from the door. From this vantage point it is abundantly clear that much like himself, no one in the room is there of their own volition. This is a court-ordered anger management class. This is the _alternative_ to a more severe punishment.

This is not hard.

Malcolm can do this.

Incarceration has made him accustomed to considering time as something to _get_ through. Looking at the clock now, there are only five minutes between now and the beginning of the class. And then another sixty minutes until he can go fuck off to wherever he is spending the rest of the afternoon - most likely his sofa with a battered copy of _Concrete Island_ his sister insisted on mailing him. He tried _Millennium People_ while in the nick, but found it fuckin’ puerile. Ballard has never been a particular favorite of his. This makes him think about Jamie and how he once tried to read _Crash_ for some artsy girl - and how he and Malcolm talked shite about the thing afterward. Nonsense about Elizabeth Taylor and bent metal and male ejaculate. Neither of them ever finished it. He pictures Jamie’s feral grin before he can stop himself, and it stings.

At three minutes to go-time, a slender man with a wispy goatee and ostentatious glasses enters the room. He is baring an artificial grin and an overstuffed binder, along with a heavy messenger bag and a travel thermos. Malcolm rightly assumes this is the man in charge. He does not seem thoroughly insufferable - but not someone Malcolm would want to speak to with any regularity. This is an unfair statement. There isn’t anyone Malcolm would want to speak to with any regularity.

Setting down the clunky bag and the thermos, the man begins to unpack his binder, organizing piles of paper on the desk at the front of the room and generally shuffling about. He glances at his phone, checking the time and then turning it off. There is one minute until the agreed upon start time. Anyone who enters now is late. Anyone who enters later than now is a total fucking waste of space. Malcolm is satisfied to see that the seat next to him remains empty.

“Right then, guess we should get started then.” The man begins with a clear of his throat, staring at the empty chair. He sets about taking the stacks of paper, which Malcolm is realizing with increasing horror are some form of _worksheets,_ and distributing them among the nine people in their group. “My name is David Wickman, my friends call me Davie. Which you may call me also, if you so desire.”

There is a chuckle from a woman at the far right of their semi-circle. _Davie_ seems unfazed, settling into a lean against the desk.

“Look - call me whatever the fuck you want, honestly. I know that none of you _want_ to be here. This is a place of last resort. This is the thing you agreed to, so that you didn’t have to do the _other_ thing. Whatever that may be. You’re a bunch of angry fucks who don’t know how to not be a bunch of angry fucks.” Wickman speaks lazily, unaffected by the vitriol around him. This complete disregard for the opinion of his audience slightly raises Malcolm’s esteem for the man. “You can either come here for ten hours and learn absolutely nothing, or you can make an attempt at being less of a menace to society and yourself. Makes no difference to me, doesn’t change my paygrade. Suit yourself. I’m easy.”

“All I ask is that you show up on time, you turn your phone off, and you shut the fuck up when I’m talking.” He stands, crossing to the blackboard behind him, and picks up a piece of chalk. He scrawls out “1: Think Before You Speak.” Writing with his left hand, he slightly smudges the chalk with his sleeve. “Please pick up your packets and take a gander at the second page - “

He is interrupted by the door opening. Malcolm does not look up from his paper - not right away. Why give his time to someone who can’t be bothered to show up when they’re supposed to? There is a woman’s voice, hurriedly ending a phone conversation. Something about ‘there are leftovers in the fridge I have to _go’_ before she hangs up and apologizes to Wickman.

The voice tickles something in the back of his brain - an animal fear. The same feeling he had as a kid, before he would check in his closet for a monster he had convinced himself was there.

He does not need to look up - it dawns on her first.

“Is this some kind of fucking joke?” she blurts. Her voice is rife with exasperation. “I’m not - absolutely not. No _fucking_ way. I’m sorry. I can’t. I refuse. Is there - I don't know - a _different_ class or something?”

“Listen. You’re already late,” Wickman drones, unaffected. Malcolm categorically _refuses_ now to look up. He’s not entirely sure what will happen to his compromised cardiovascular system if he does. He may not want too terribly to _live_ but he doesn't want to die in this chair in front of a bunch of strangers and _her._ “I don’t know what the alternative was for you, but I can tell you there isn’t another class and this is kind of an all-or-nothing deal. Either sit in the fucking chair or talk to whatever lawyer got you into this, okay?”

“I’m not - you don’t _understand."_ Her plea falls on deaf ears. Malcolm notes that her voice sounds _closer._ Despite her protestation, she is already edging into the room.   
  
Wickman tuts and sucks his teeth. “Sit. Or _leave_. You’re wasting everyone’s time right now.”  
  
There is a moment of silence. And then shuffling footsteps. The creak of the chair next to his as she sits. The thud of a handbag dropped against the tile. And a rather theatrical sigh. He assumes that it’s for his benefit.

Malcolm finally finds the strength to tear himself away from the paper in front of him, venturing a look at the woman in the chair. The woman he already knows quite well from the timbre of her voice and the light floral scent and the way that she _huffs_ when she’s - rightfully - furious with him.

She's changed her hair. It's grown out nicely, curling in soft chestnut waves away from her face. It accentuates her eyes. The seething green ones currently trying to murder him through sheer force of will alone.  
  
"Nic'la," he grunts with a polite nod. She _snaps_ the pencil in her hand - clean in two. Her teeth do not move when she hisses her response.

"Fuck off _and die_."  
  
This might be hard after all.


	2. the sound of breaking glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: car accidents.
> 
> The anger management tips with each chapter going forward are all pulled directly from [here](https://www.mayoclinic.org/healthy-lifestyle/adult-health/in-depth/anger-management/art-20045434).

**one: think before you speak**  
in the heat of the moment, it's easy to say something you'll later regret  
take a few moments to collect your thoughts before saying anything  
— and allow others involved in the situation to do the same

He can't find it in him to focus on the material. Wickman has been talking and reading from the pamphlets for well over thirty minutes now and fuck if Malcolm has any idea what he’s going on about. He would like to pretend that it is due to the nature of the subject - that it’s insipid and pedestrian. Obvious drivel about _thinking_ before you speak. Only the slowest of wits must need to do so. Malcolm has never found it a necessity.

His lack of focus, however, has nothing to with the subject matter. There are several different lines of thought cluttering his brain-pan, all of which are _entirely_ due to the unexpected presence of Nicola Murray only an arm’s length to his right. 

The first - and the most topical - is that she looks quite good. She looks healthy, in a way that she never did before. Robust. Vigorous. Maybe it’s the hair. Maybe she’s sleeping better or drinking more water. Perhaps she’s binned the old ball and chain. He factors in the passage of time - Katie’s out of the house and Ella’s probably in sixth-form now. So that’s got to lessen the load a bit. Squinting at the paper in her lap, she frowns and bends to rummage in her bag with a sigh. Nicola removes a camel-colored leather glasses-case. The tiny swoop in his stomach when she puts on her tortoise-shell frames feels distinctly like a betrayal. They’re disarming - yet at the same time an acute reminder of the passage of time. When did they get so fucking old?

Stealing another look, he assesses her current attire. Dark trousers, classic black trench. She’d be more comfortable with it off but she sat down in too much of a tizzy to think about it. Peaking out from beneath is a blouse with some sort of floral pattern on a burgundy background. He considers all of the ill-fitting vibrant outfits she wore so long ago. The white and blue dress with the purple cardigan. God, and that awful cyan thing with the little bolero. Who looked at that and thought “hmm yeah, she’s makin’ a leadership bid, alright”? Fucking _mental._ As much as he hated them - he has to wonder what happened. The more time she spent with him, the grayer her wardrobe became. It was like he leeched the color right out of her life. And that’s not something he wants to dwell on.

The underlying concern - the thing he really can’t shake - is a thorough curiosity as to why she’s even fucking here. For all of the furtive glances he steals, she never once looks his way. In fact - she’s making a hell of a point to _not_ acknowledge that anything exists past the left side of her face. Her entire countenance is pure, vibrating annoyance. Even if he wasn’t painfully aware of her presence, the constant bounce of her left knee is impossible to ignore. And while he can be certain a good deal of that stems from his being here, he also hazards a guess that she would be just as monumentally unpleasant otherwise. 

She wasn’t an angry person when he knew her. At least not to his knowledge. Nicola was at best a bundle of nerves and petty neuroses. And at worst an absolute fucking doormat. He flicks through the microfiche of their time together. A click - and he’s picturing her face about her daughter and the comprehensive. Another click. Her slamming the door in his face in the hotel room. Click. Nicola’s eyes darting up and to the left, her labored breathing as he unloads on her in the car about the key differences between _on_ the record and _off_ the record. There is a lengthy montage of tight-lipped grimaces and fingernails cutting into palms. The strange way her jaw seemed to clench when she thought of her husband.

He bites at a hangnail - lost in reverie. Unaware that Wickman has stopped speaking. Unaware that everyone has stopped speaking and is now beginning to stand and leave because the class is over. Excellent. He’s spent almost a full hour thinking about her. Weren’t the months of ocular imagery enough?

She’s faster than he is, hurrying to grab her handbag and escape before he can speak to her. But the other attendees are bottle-necking at the door and she can’t spill out quickly enough. 

“Nic’la,” he ventures gently. She does not turn to look at him, instead edging her way through the group. He has to elbow his way past Mr. Metal-Face and a sour-looking silver-haired woman who smells vaguely of fish just to keep her in his line of sight. Doesn’t matter. He knows exactly where she’s going. The room is on the third floor. And while everyone else makes for the lift to the right, she will inevitably head for the stairs on the left.

He calls her name again, louder this time. In earnest. But she flings the door open and disappears into the stairwell. Fucking hell. It can't be good for him to walk this fast, especially before taking three flights of stairs. He tries to rationalize it - that he’s descending and not climbing and that should count for something in the end. When he follows her through the door, he can hear from the distance of her footsteps that she’s already halfway down the first flight.

“Hello?” He shouts. The footsteps stop, his voice echoing in the silence. “Nic’la fuckin’ Murray? Stop running from me, yeah? You can obviously see I’m not in the shape to catch you. If I keel over and die in this stairwell it’ll be your fuckin’ fault, you daft bint. On second thought, they might throw you a parade.”

“Alright.” Her voice is small and resigned. More like the Nicola he remembers. “Fine. But I'm not coming back up there. You can walk the rest of the way down.”

When he catches up to her, she’s leaning against the handrail with her arms firmly crossed. She looks like someone just forced her to drink a cup of vinegar. In her haste to leave she didn’t bother to put her glasses away, balancing them on top of her head. He does not like the way it makes him feel.

“For what it’s worth - “

“Don’t fucking apologize to me,” she snaps with a glare. For all of her animosity, she still isn’t looking at him. Nicola instead begins to pick at the peeling paint on the handrail, little flakes of black scraping against her thumbnail. “I don’t want it.”

“I wasn’t gonna apologize.” He is far more out of breath than he’d like to be, doing his best to mask the little wheezes. Nicola’s face is stuck in a perpetual sneer. It’s like talking to a sullen teenager. “Fuck, you’re absolutely abysmal, huh? If you want you can just chuck me down the rest of the way. Piss on my crumpled up corpse on the way out.”

She wheels on him, rubbing at her temple. “What do you _want,_ Malcolm?”

“I was gonna fucking - I was gonna say that I didn’t expect to see you here.” Nicola is reminding him of an anxious dog. He is very much concerned that he’s going to get bitten. There’s an alarming amount of placation tumbling from his lips. “And I didn’t want to sit next to you. And if they had given me the chance to take a different class I fuckin' would’ve. Hopefully they let you go somewhere else before next week - I just. Fuckin’ _hell_.”

Her face does not move while he speaks. Malcolm would feel a lot better if something would just _shift_ instead of this very intense staring thing she’s doing. He runs a hand through his hair, waiting for a response.

“Okay,” she runs her tongue across her teeth. “Can I go now? Am I done? You’re not in _charge_ of me anymore, Malcolm.”

“No - I just.” Jesus Christ, when did she get to be such a cunt? A voice in the back of his head reminds him that it is likely ~~definitely~~ his fault. He tends to have that effect on people. He’s like a rock tumbler - but instead of turning people into gemstones he just grinds them into caustic fucking bastards. “You know why _I’m_ here. Everybody in the whole fuckin’ world knows why I would be here. But you - what’re you doin’ here?”

Nicola tilts her head, considering. There is a moment of internal struggle before she relents. “If I tell you will you leave me alone?”

Malcolm shrugs. Seems fair. 

“I broke a car window,” she confesses, then turns and descends the stairs. He is stunned into silence. The neurons in his brain catastrophically misfiring. The words make sense individually but strung in that order and from _her_ mouth, they don’t compute.

Breaking the spell of confusion, he gives chase and calls after her. “I’m sorry?”

“I - fuck.” She stops at the bottom of the stairs, throwing her hands up in surrender. “I was on my way to donate James’s old golf clubs to a charity shop. They were sitting in the house for so long, just taking up space. Looming there like some kind of - anyway. I finally got it in my head to chuck them in the backseat of the car and just _give_ them to someone. Probably could’ve sold them. They were quite nice. Fucker.”

She’s gone quiet, no doubt lost in some cavern of dislike for her husband. Malcolm prods her into continuing. “That still doesn’t explain the window.”

“Right - sorry. I was driving and the fucking tosser in front of me, in this _hideous_ yellow Jag mind you, just the most ostentatious fucking - Christ. He stopped short and I was already running late and - I rear-ended him.” She inhales deeply, centering herself before continuing. “Barely tapped him really. A scratch the length of my index finger. If that. And he immediately - the bastard immediately got out of the car and started to _blame me_ when he clearly stopped short for no bloody reason. This no-neck prick in a pair of chinos.”

There’s a splotch of color rising along her throat and she keeps fidgeting with her hands, clenching them into useless little fists. He waits for an explosion that does not come. Instead, she closes her eyes and takes another shaky inhale. He gently presses forward. “Go on.”

“So - I just saw red. I didn’t say anything.” Toying with her bracelet, she looks away and swallows. Her voice grows cold. “I very quietly and calmly went into the backseat and took the five iron and just. Bashed the arsehead’s rear window in.” The admission rushes out of her in a single breath. Like one of those massive German nouns. He can feel his eyebrows making an attempt to join his hairline.

“What did good old Mr. Murray have to say about that?” It’s an attempt to break the tension. A hope that if he teases her she won’t be so fucking awkward about it. That _he_ won’t be so awkward about it. 

“Nothing.” Something about the jab doesn’t sit right with her. It leaves her uneasy and she turns to leave.

“Really?” He calls out to her before he can think - before he stops to consider the lesson du jour. It’s his nature to push and poke and rile. “His sweet little Nic’la goes fuckin’ feral and starts brandishin’ a golf club and he doesn’t have anything to contribute?”

“No. He hasn’t said anything in a while actually.” She stops with a hand on the door. There’s a strange bitter laugh at the back of her throat. “He’s dead, Malcolm. You insensitive _fucking_ prick.”

She does not look back when she leaves. 

* * *

He’s shivering by the time he walks through his door - perhaps a walk home in the middle of February after the sun’s gone down wasn’t the smartest call. Doesn’t matter. Malcolm always liked being cold. The way the air stings against his cheeks and the stillness of it. It’s a test of willpower, the ability to force his body to endure and withstand. He drove his mother crazy with it, coming home from school with the tips of his ears and nose whipped pink with cold. “Why can’t ye be more like Deb?” she’d fuss, gesturing at his baby sister so bundled up you could barely see her eyes. Two tiny blue beads poking out between a hand-me-down hat and a mountain of scarf.

Maybe he always liked to punish himself. Maybe comfort always drove him up the fucking wall.

[Jamie always complained the flat was too cold - that he’d give himself a fuckin' chill like that. That his consumptive lookin’ fuckin’ frame couldn’t survive a go-round with pneumonia. And he wasn’t intending on burying him any time soon. He would wrap himself around him until Malcolm stopped rattling like a sack of bones. He recalls abruptly how hot his skin always was. It makes him want to scream.]

He shakes the memories away while he hangs up his coat, shuffling to the fridge and grabbing a Fanta before coming to rest on the sofa. There’s too many scatter cushions for his liking. These gaudy sequined things in lavender and teal, things that he let the decorator choose when he moved in. They seem too much like something Nicola would own. Why do these people swim in his fucking head? Nicola with her god-awful eyes and Jamie and his mam and little Deborah. It’s enough to make him gag. He opens the laptop on the coffee table with a huff.

It had not occurred to him to keep tabs on Nicola Murray. That her life - or frankly, the lives of anyone around him - had progressed in any capacity during his brief incarceration was an alien concept. Things did not happen while Malcolm Tucker was not in the room. This was an actual _fear_ of his as a child, now that he considers it. That he was the only real person and everyone stopped just like toy soldiers when he turned his back. Tiny egotistical nutter.

He considers googling her - but it feels like an invasion of privacy somehow. That he should give her the dignity of getting to know her again like a person. If she'll speak to him. However, he _would_ like to learn what happened to James. And he doesn’t want to press her any further on the subject. With a shrug, he types in ‘James Murray Death’ and presses enter.

His stomach drops.

There’s a very salacious and inflammatory article from the Mail - “PFI Magnate Magnet for Tragedy: Love Affair Turns Bloody on the M25.” Dated eight months ago. Malcolm is absolutely thunderstruck - the idiot crashed his car in the wee hours of the morning while driving around with his secretary. Veered into oncoming traffic. Managed to rough the other driver up something awful. At least that poor bastard _lived_. James Murray died on impact and in infamy. The secretary felt so bad about the whole thing she crumbled. Confessed to giving him a fuckin’ handy while he was driving. Blames herself for his death. There’s a mugshot of the poor lass crying her eyes out, mascara streaking down her face. She’s doing five years for the whole thing.

Jesus fuckin' _Christ._ Poor Nicola. God - and Nicola’s kids.

And he made her blurt it out in the bottom of a stairwell like that. To him of all people. Just poked her right in a bruise. The way she talked about donating the golf clubs - her stiffening at the mere mention of him. The signs were all right there in front of him. Printed a meter high. Flashing red. _Think before you speak,_ Wickman repeats in his ear.

Then - thinking about James Murray’s busted and battered corpse among the deployed airbags and shards of glass. The way the girl probably screamed and fucking _screamed_. That moment right before impact - where the car jerks wrong and everything moves in slow motion as your body folds sideways and the radio flashes before your eyes. Some stupid snippet of music that will drag you here every time it’s playing in a Tesco. That horrible thud. Sirens. It has shifted from the hypothetical to the remembered. His own accident. The one that ended things with Evie for good. But at least he didn’t die. At least nobody died.

He killed his _marriage_ and his pride but nobody fucking died. Right?

[Again Jamie. Coat in his hands in the hospital hall. Malcolm limping his way out - can’t tell how much of the pain is residual from the impact and how much is the first stages of the inevitable withdrawal. The look in Jamie’s eyes, shaking his head when Malcolm asks if Evie - the unspoken insistence that Malcolm would not be going home. That he would not be left to his own devices. That Jamie was going to lock him in the damn flat with a blanket and a bottle of paracetamol and all the orange juice he can possibly choke down his gullet.]

Before he can consider _why_ he's doing it, Malcolm pulls up his email and starts to type in Jamie’s address. He stops, fingers hovering above the keys. Why would he have the same address after all this time? He thinks about looking him up on Facebook - Deb insisted that he get one to look at pictures of the girls. But that feels infantile. Feels like checking up on an old flame to see if they’re still single.

How would this be any different? Because Jamie is so much more than that? No - it’s because he hopes that he isn’t single. He hopes against hope that Jamie is doing so much better than he is. That Jamie has a girl or a boy or whoever and a nice house and a lovely dog and doesn’t think about him at all. That Malcolm Tucker never crosses his mind. Not even for a second.

Closing the laptop and turning on the television, he is somewhat proud of himself.   
  
Malcolm Tucker _can_ think before he speaks.


	3. accidents will happen.

**two: once you're calm, express your anger**  
as soon as you're thinking clearly, express your frustration in an assertive but non-confrontational way.   
state your concerns and needs clearly and directly, without hurting others or trying to control them.

It is a very mundane seven days until he sees Nicola Murray again.

The firm that has hired Malcolm does not give him much to do, not yet. Upon his physician’s request, he does almost all of his work from home. They email him things and fax him things and he reads them and says ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or ‘I think the fuck not’ or ‘ _absolutely_ the fuck not’. Sometimes there is a conference call. Once a month he will have to attend a meeting in what he imagines to be an extravagant boardroom in an office building with too many windows and nod sagely at the right moments. And then they shall deposit disgustingly large sums of money into his bank account. The sheer scale of monetary difference between working in the private sector and the public is a bit sickening. Malcolm does not feel like he deserves or earns the pay - but at same time, the fuckers can certainly afford it.

And maybe it’s better that it sits in some savings account of his and actually gets _taxed._ Rather than routed to the Caymans or spent indirectly funding a Columbian kingpin or purchasing trafficked Southeast Asian girls. He isn’t Robin Hood, not by any stretch of the imagination, but this has to be _some_ sort of harm reduction.

While there is a particular appeal to taking the rich pricks money without actually doing anything, Malcolm has never had this much free time in his life. He is not the sort of person to just _sit_. Thus, after merely a month on the outside, Malcolm is left bored. Incredibly bored. And that boredom in turn leads to sadness and introspection, which is not Malcolm’s bag.

[Historically - this would then lead in turn to drink. Malcolm does not allow things to get that far. There is a particularly bleak moment around ten o’clock Tuesday night where he realizes that everything he has ever strived for in his life is now a moot point and he feels very very small. All of the sacrifices he ever made and all of the people he ever heaped onto the burning pyre ultimately don’t matter now, as he sits on his sofa and does a crossword. Watching the news makes him feel impotent and ignored. Already fading into obscurity. His thumb hovers over the cellular number for his long-time sponsor, Clyde. The call does not need to be placed, thankfully. He instead takes a cold shower and goes to sleep.]

There are hobbies to fill the time. Reading is one of them. He tries to attack the stupendous pile of books that Deb is always forcing upon him. But he can’t seem to really lose himself in a story the way he did when he was young, finding himself absentmindedly restarting the same paragraph three and four times over. When that doesn’t work, there’s always the culinary arts. But there is something pathetic about cooking for one. Again and again. Night after night. He finds himself wondering if Nicola would like the things that he cooks. He wonders what she eats and how she takes her lamb and if James ever made her dinner or if he was the sort to always pick-up takeaway. Maybe she’s one of those people who thinks coriander tastes like soap. All of this wondering spoils his appetite.

It is becoming crystal fucking clear that he’s going to have to actually talk to her. To say something that will exorcise the frizzy demon and free him from this torment.

Taking a page from Wickman’s proverbial [and literal] book, he thinks. He thinks long and hard about what the _fuck_ to say to her. There’s a point where he actually starts to write things down. A legal pad sits on his coffee table chock full of scribbles and false starts. Thought diagrams and pro/con columns. His strategy whenever Evie was cross was to prostrate himself - to say ‘yer right love, I was an idiot and I’m fuckin’ terrible and I don’t deserve you’ - regardless of what happened or who was in the wrong. He just wanted to placate her and be done with it, and for the most part it worked. Not in the long term, obviously.

[He always remembers her the same way. By the gargantuan bay window in their sitting room. In the house that her father paid for. The way the sun caught her straw hair and spun it right to gold. Her willowy frame standing aloof, arms crossed and her nose in the air. Waiting for the apology she knew would come. Relenting when he played the fool again. The endless cycle of her withholding and his worshipping until a portion of that golden light would shine on him.]

This line of thinking would be significantly more useful if he felt like he owed Nicola Murray an apology at all. 

* * *

He’s later for this week's meeting than he would like, strolling in only five minutes early instead of his usual fifteen. He had misplaced his house keys and spent a very frustrated twenty minutes searching for them only to find them in his coat pocket from the night before. This tardiness means that he does not get his pick of a seat - all of them have filled. Every chair except the one next to the dour-faced brunette on the far left of the room. The universe is full of cruel statistical anomalies, isn’t it?

He sits as quickly as his stiff knees will allow, watching her bristle at his presence.

“I see they didn’t let you take a different class, then?” Malcolm ventures gently. Her eyes close, shoulders tense, grappling with an urge to reply with some vicious barb. She settles for a terse _no_ , a word he’s amazed she can choke out beyond her locked jaw. If she isn’t careful she’s going to grind her molars down to nubs.

He can’t respond the way he would like to. Wickman’s here now, methodically unpacking his belongings onto the desk and organizing the handouts for whatever this week’s coping mechanism is. Launching into pleasantries and all that. A brave choice - considering no one in the room is feeling the least bit inclined to humor him. The tepid response doesn’t deter him, and Wickman goes on the read from the print out with his usual aplomb. 

Today’s lesson is about expressing your anger. About pinpointing the _why_ and relating it in a rational, collected manner. As an exercise, they are to think about the last thing that made them angry and write it down. He tries to look without looking at Nicola’s paper. While he can see her answer he certainly can’t read it. He’s never noticed before, but her handwriting is exceptionally small. It is just as tense and nervy as she is. Even the way she holds her pencil is odd - all of her fingers clustered together around the tip, furiously pressing the graphite against the page. And she’s got that turned damn near sideways. It’s the most anxiety-inducing thing he’s ever seen. Malcolm’s amazed she can even _read_ it, let alone write it like that. Even with the glasses she wears.

“Alright, angry fuckers. Now that you’ve had time to organize your thoughts, I’d like us to go around the room and read aloud what you’ve written.” There is a collective groan at the juvenile activity. Wickman continues undeterred, swiveling his gaze to Malcolm. “Starting at this side of the room, if we may. Remember - assertive but non-confrontational.”

Malcolm rolls his eyes. This is fucking stupid. But Wickman is just _staring_ at him, and the longer it takes him to speak, the harder the rest of the room begins to hone in on him. He sighs, glancing at the paper in his hand, and opens his mouth to begin.

“Stand up, please. It works better that way,” Wickman adds with a grin that does not reach his eyes.

Fucking ridiculous. Primary school _drivel._ He stands, folding his arms across his chest, and gives the man his best glare. Malcolm must be losing his edge, because it does absolutely nothing.

“I was fuckin’ livid this afternoon because - “ He stops for a moment, gathering himself. If he had known that they would be _reading them aloud_ he would’ve chosen something less deeply personal. It must be nice for the others here, being in a room full of strangers. Unlike this fucking community theater production of _No Exit_ he’s found himself in with the woman at his side. Sartre can eat his bloody heart out. “I was angry this afternoon because the corner shop was out of Fanta.”

“Really? Can you not take anything seriously for one fucking moment?” Nicola bites out as he sits back down, loudly enough for everyone to hear. There is an uncomfortable cough from the right side of the room - the silver-haired fishy woman is covering a snigger.

“Sorry, thought you lot would be mature enough to not need me to _say it,”_ Wickman huffs, looking pointedly at Nicola. “But I don’t want any cross-talk while we share. Thank you.”

She leans into Malcolm’s space, whispering so only he can hear, as she stands for her turn. “Great - you share some insipid anecdote about _soda._ Now mine’s going to sound totally dramatic. Bastard.”

“Right. I was angry this morning because my daughter hasn’t spoken to me. At all. For three days.” While she’s nailed the non-confrontational aspect, Nicola’s missed assertive by a mile. It’s less of a declaration and more of a resigned whimper, staring into the middle distance with a grimace. The statement is in itself rather shocking - when he knew her, Nicola loved her children. Couldn’t shut the fuck up about them. So the knowledge that one of them has stopped speaking to her altogether is alarming. He hopes that it’s Katie. That it’s just one of those fits of adolescent growing pains. He had his fair share of scraps with his mam at that age, and he can be reasonably sure that Nicola did too.

He finds himself unable to think about much else - not listening to the others in the room and their petty outrage at being cut-off in traffic or talked down to by their bosses. Instead ruminating on Nicola and her painful confession, the one that she jotted down in near microscopic print. It is occurring to him with each new snippet that Nicola fell quite far. From Leader of the Opposition to widow in an anger management class whose child will not speak to her. He wonders if the fall would’ve been _as_ far if she hadn’t been pushed. 

When Wickman is done and the hour is up, Nicola rises a little less quickly than the last time. He can’t be certain but it seems as if she is lingering for his benefit. Giving him an opening. He’ll take it, whatever it is.

“Nic’la,” he starts, standing to join her. They hang back for a moment, watching the inevitable bottleneck at the classroom door. Malcolm is reminded of the people who stand up the moment a plane lands, crowding against each other and hunching beneath the overhead bins as if it’s going to get them out of the tin can any faster. He’s always preferred to lounge in his seat.

“You want to talk to me don’t you?” She mutters without turning to him, packing her glasses away in their case with a snap. “You’ve found out what happened to James and you want to talk to me. Some misguided attempt at oh, I don’t know what.”

“I mean - I think it could be good. You know.” It’s amazing how rattled she can leave him. Malcolm is not used to tripping over his words. He notices that Wickman is eyeing them every few seconds as he packs up his things. “For both of us. Clear the air, if we have to keep fuckin’ seeing each other every week.”

“Fine. I guess. I doubt you’re going to take no for an answer. You never did before.” Digging in her cluttered handbag for her keys, Nicola huffs. For all her feigned nonchalance, it’s obvious she’s already considered this eventuality. She heads for the door, now that the traffic has cleared, without even bothering to see if he’s behind her. “There’s a pub on the next block - small. Older crowd. Shouldn’t be too busy.”

He is left to follow in her wake, trailing her through the door and down the stairs in a stony silence. They do not labor under the pretense of small talk, not even when they make their way into the chilly night air. There is enough ambient Friday night sound on the short walk over to fill the conversational void. He entertains himself by watching his breath cloud in front of his face. It’s more polite than watching the sway of her hips in front of him, anyhow.

There is a lingering herbal scent in the air as they reach the door, that garrigue aroma of lavender and rosemary. She pauses and takes a final inhale from a small plastic device in her hand. The way she exhales is a bit too feline and luxurious for his liking. It's almost becoming.

“It’s an herbal vape - don’t look so shocked. There’s not any nicotine in it or anything. Just essential oils. My daughter bought it for me. It’s supposed to calm my nerves,” she explains, dropping the object into her handbag and heading inside. As she moves through the thin crowd of quiet middle-aged sots it is with the grace of someone who has definitely been here before. The bartender even knows her by name.

“What are you drinking?” She offers quickly, barely throwing him a glance over her shoulder. He’d rather be the one doing the ordering and paying, but he doesn’t want to go through the motions of haggling about it. It always seems so tacky to him.

“Pellegrino, I guess. With an orange slice if they have it.” He hopes that she takes it at face value. That she doesn’t question why he isn’t ordering something more robust on a Friday night. The question flickers across her gaze, but she shrugs it away. She pays for the drinks - a soda water for Malcolm and a glass of white wine for herself - before nodding in the direction of a back booth. There is no orange slice. He doesn’t really care. 

It’s warm in this part of the bar, away from the door and the last vestiges of winter air. Nicola sheds her trench coat and sets it gingerly in the booth seat before sliding in across from him.

“So. You’ve seen,” she ventures, toying with the silver chain bracelet on her wrist. “About James. Obviously.”

He takes a gulp of the water, wetting his lips before attempting to tackle the subject at hand. “Yeah. I’m - fuckin’ _Christ,_ Nic’la. I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Don’t - I told you before. I don’t want your apologies.” Her nose wrinkles in a grimace, and he watches her nails scrape against the table top. “I don’t want your fucking sympathies either. I don’t need them.”

“How are you holding up?” Malcolm changes tack. Perhaps he should allow her to steer the conversation.

“Is that a real fucking question?” She barks out a laugh at the absurdity of it. Instantly, he must agree with her. Has it been this long since he’s had a real conversation with someone? He’s floundering abysmally. “How do you think I’m holding up, Malcolm? My husband died with his cock out. My husband - while I was unemployed. While I was fucking recuperating from my colossal public failure. And because God fucking _hates_ me for some reason, you now know that Ella isn’t speaking to me anymore. Nicola Murray - mother of the year right here.”

“Oh?” He clears his throat, attempting to reign in his initial surprise. “Is it Ella that’s not speakin’ to you? I assumed it was Katie that - “

“Oh, that’s _cute._ You remember their names. It’s almost like you give a shit.” The way that she sneers at him makes his blood boil. It vaguely reminds him of Evie.

“Can you not spit venom at me for two fuckin' seconds? Christ alive, you’ve turned into one hell of a cunt.” He wishes he had the energy to explode on her the way he wants to. But he’s far too tired and far too old for all of that. And distinctly under-caffeinated. “I’m tryin’ to fuckin’ talk to you. That’s it. You’re the one who invited me here, you daft fuckin’ bint.”

Her features soften as she relents, leaning back against her seat and chewing on a thumbnail. “Fine - I just. Can you not see why I might be a little tense?” He tilts his head in silent accord, taking another sip of his tepid beverage. Nicola has barely touched her wine. “Shit - speaking of. I need to text Ella and let her know that I’ll be home late. Tell her to order the boys a pizza or something.”

As much as she insists she doesn’t want an apology, he can’t just sit here silently while she glares at her phone. She looks right miserable. “Kids stop speaking to their mum’s all the time - I didn’t talk to mine for almost a month after she wouldn’t let me go ‘round Sammy McBride’s house anymore. Caught us with firecrackers _one time._ ”

“Fuck off. It’s not like that.” For someone who invited him here expressly to talk, she’s doing a terrible job of _communicating._ It’s like having a conversation with a brick wall. A very cross brick wall.

“You want to tell me what it’s like, then? Or are you just gonna keep tryin’ to bite my head off?”

She sits for a moment, head in her hands. When she finally _does_ answer him, it’s so muffled he can barely hear her. “It’s - she blames me. For James.”

“How does that even begin to make any kind of - “

Whatever bubble has been building within her since Wickman initiated the exercise finally bursts. She slaps the table with the flat of her palm. The wine glass rattles, threatening to topple over. Malcolm reaches over and steadies it. “Because if I were home more before - if I hadn’t gone for Leader and if I hadn’t been so monumentally fucking depressed after my resignation - maybe our marriage wouldn't have imploded. Maybe I would’ve been a more pleasant shag and he wouldn’t have slept with his trollop of a secretary and if he hadn’t shagged her then he wouldn’t be dead.”

“That’s ridiculous.” As if Nicola needs any help to blame herself for anything. He can’t be too mad at the girl, she’s only a teenager grappling with all of this. But fucking _hell,_ Ella.

“Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I’ve tried to tell her that?” The animosity in her voice recedes slightly, replaced by a dull resentment. A resigned acceptance of her place in things. There’s some Elvis Costello song playing over the tinny pub speakers. One that he recognizes from his youth - she must too, humming to herself at the chorus about being a victim, drumming her fingers on the table top. God, they’re so fucking _old._ “And you know the worst of it all? He’s dead. I’m so angry at him. Not even for cheating on me - I always knew. Somehow. I mean, who wouldn’t step out on me? I’m a miserable _cow_.”

The look on her face - this miasma of self-loathing - makes him feel like he _should_ say something. But he can’t even begin to unpack that line of thinking. Not that she’d listen to him anyway. He wonders which of those words are James’s and not her own. She presses forward.

“But to be so flagrantly stupid? To die in such a spectacularly embarrassing way - to pin that on his children.” Nicola holds out her hands and just _stares_ at them. As if they don’t belong to her. These outraged alien things. “I have all of this anger but I can’t do anything with it because he’s fucking _dead._ What am I supposed to do? Am I just going to yell at a jar full of ash?”

By the time she’s done, her voice is raised high enough that a man across from them looks up from his pint. Malcolm shoots him a withering glare. She runs a hand through her hair, steadying herself with a long exhale. There’s a fragile false grin on her lips when she continues. Malcolm can’t tell if she’s going to laugh or scream.

“Enough about me. How are you? I assumed you’d still be in prison.” She takes a small sip of her wine, a nervous reflex. “Or dead.”

“I got out early.” He catches himself before admitting the whole truth of the matter. Nicola has enough on her plate without worrying about _him,_ too. He’s forgotten how easy it is for him to lie. “Good behavior and all that. On parole of course. For the next three fuckin’ years. Might as well be the rest of my life.”

“Are you working?” Nicola’s minor eruption seems to have lightened the tone between them. At least enough for reasonable, human conversation. It’s almost pleasant. If he squints.

“Yeah. Some snooty fuckin’ PR firm,” he gestures in the air with a derisive snort. “Friend of a friend. I sit on my couch and get cc’d on emails that don’t have a fuckin’ point. You?"

“James left us rather … comfortable. Financially. When he passed.” There’s a flash of embarrassment in her eyes, darting away from him and back to her bracelet. He’s gathered enough from her over the years to extrapolate that Nicola did not come from generous means. Whatever sum of money her idiot husband saw fit to bequeath them, it’s enough to make her uncomfortable. “I took a relatively low paying position, with a non-profit group. We work with underfunded afterschool arts programs. I really like it. I feel good about it. I’m doing more there than I ever accomplished in politics."

The very real sparkle in her eyes, talking about these kids she cares about, starts to fade. She shifts in her seat nervously. “I never did anything good, did I? I mean, I never really mattered.”

“You tried. In the beginning anyway.” He thinks about those heady first few months. She was a pain in the arse. The most wonderful thorn in his fucking side. Indiana Murray and her great big bum dildo of vengeance. What happened to _her_? “It was different. You were different.”

“I keep waiting for you to apologize,” she admits, eyes downcast. “I’m bloody _terrified_ you’re going to try to say you’re sorry for the whole affair.”

“Why does that scare you?” He stares at her, failing to comprehend.

“Because it implies that it’s your fault. That I had no agency in the whole thing. That I just simply did whatever the fuck you wanted me to.” She does that thing that he saw her do on the stairs. Closing her eyes and taking a long inhale. He gets the impression that she’s counting backwards from ten or something. A trick they teach you on a self-help tape. “But more than that. It scares me because - I know it isn’t true. You weren’t sorry then. And you aren’t sorry now.”

“Why would I be sorry, Nic’la? I don’t regret what I did. It was … necessary.” This is exactly what he feared would happen. That she still wouldn’t see the inevitability in his choices, even after all of this time. Is she deliberately this obtuse? “It was a fuckin’ mercy killing. You were _awful_ as leader. You were making policy decisions so fuckin’ vile the other side abandoned them! You turned into this simpering, compromising useless husk. The party was taking on water fast - I had to chuck you overboard. I’d do the same thing again in a heartbeat.”

“That’s not - that’s not what -” She stammers, an edge of hysteria to her voice. The fellow with the pint looks up again. Malcolm lowers his voice to an agitated hiss, but not before trying to kill the man with his eyes.

“Then what, Nic’la? What the _fuck_ would I apologize for?”

She stares at him dumbfounded. As if he’s the one missing the obvious point. “For making me think I could do any of it in the first place. I should’ve gone to America when I had the chance.”

_Oh._

Well. That’s something. That hadn’t even occurred to him. Malcolm’s worldview has been slightly shaken. Before he has time to try and reconcile her statement with his interpretation of events, she blurts out a question.

“Why the fucking Fanta, Malcolm?”

No matter how many days and years sober he gets under his belt, The Talk never really gets easier. As much as he doesn’t want to have _this_ conversation, it’s preferable to the one they’re leaving behind. “I don’t drink.”

“Really?”

“You never noticed? Not once did it possibly occur to you?” He thought it was obvious. He generally assumed that everyone in the circles he traveled in was well aware of both his present sobriety and the catastrophic days that preceded it. “Jesus, you’re denser than I thought. All of the Red Bulls and the coffees? The Fantas and the orange juice at every fuckin’ function? I’m drinking a soddin’ Pellegrino right now. In a pub. On a Friday night.” _With a woman,_ he almost adds. He thinks better of it.

“Oh. But why _Fanta_?” She quirks her head with a slight frown. Her eyebrows knit together in that curious little way she has, forming soft lines on her forehead.

“Clyde - my sponsor. He drank Fanta. Bought me cases of the shite way back when. I don’t like not having it in my house - it’s a metaphor.” This conversation has taken a decidedly personal turn. He’s never told anyone about this - not Deb or Jamie or even Clyde. He can’t be sure he’s ever really articulated the thought process to himself, now that he’s saying it out loud. “A visual signifier that I could slip back at any moment. And that _not_ drinking is a conscious choice. A daily decision not to do that anymore. Not to _be_ that anymore. Christ. I really thought everybody knew.” 

“So you were angry about the Fanta because you thought you might drink again? If you didn’t have it?” Her question is so earnest that he might choke. Malcolm can’t remember the last time someone genuinely cared this much about something he said.

“No - I was - I was angry because,” he struggles to find the words. The concept feels too big to travel from his brain through his mouth. He’s butchering the whole affair, he knows he is. “Because I shouldn’t _need_ it. Because I shouldn’t still think about drinking. I shouldn’t still have to consciously use all these fuckin’ crutches and work arounds and I don’t want to have Clyde’s number on speed dial because I’m just sittin’ on my sofa all fuckin’ day with nothing to do and no one to call. I miss being too busy to drink.”

He has revealed too much. He has shown far more of his hand than he would like. But he can’t seem to stop himself from continuing. From a final admittance.

“I miss being too busy to think about myself.”

Something about the look in her eyes tugs at the back of his mind. The way that she stares at him so unflinchingly. The complete and utter lack of judgement or condemnation. The absence, too, of support or excuse.

Then there is a titanic shift in his understanding. Everything aligns for him, watching the green of her irises in this dimly lit, sticky pub booth. Many people have looked at Malcolm Tucker in fear or in disgust. Deb and Sam would always look at him with kindness. But seldom few ever looked with _understanding._ There was Evie, but she seemed to always be looking down. And Jamie, too. But he always gazed upward.

Nicola Murray, in her resolute stare, looks straight across. In only comprehension - devoid of disdain. Free of reverence. There isn't even a hint of sympathy.  
  
Nicola simply knows him. And damn if that doesn’t scare him to death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title taken from the Elvis Costello song playing in the pub.


	4. glassworks.

**three: take a timeout  
** timeouts aren't just for kids  
give yourself short breaks during times of the day that tend to be stressful   
a few moments of quiet time might help you feel better prepared to handle what's ahead

He really hopes that Nicola still lives here. The thought hadn’t occurred to him until standing at the foot of the front walk, his Uber already rolling away down the street. Didn’t wait till he was more than two steps from the car before driving off. Tosser.

Malcolm had spent most of this evening’s class staring at the empty seat next to his. His brain spun with imagined scenarios preventing her from attendance - perhaps she was sick, or something happened at work, or something happened to one of her many children or who knows what. It didn't help that he hadn't spoken to her at all since their conversation last week in the pub. So many what-ifs whirled around that he was beginning to feel like the woman herself. Wickman’s flimsy explanation of a ‘family emergency’ did fuck all to calm him down.

Two cars are parked in the drive - a green compact that’s seen better days, parked behind a white mid-size Nissan. Upon closer inspection, the latter has one of those ridiculous little stick figure families on the rear window. Four children - two girls and two boys if the triangle skirts and bows are anything to go by - and one taller woman. Next to the woman is a conspicuously mostly-vacant space. He can just make out where an additional adult figure was crudely scraped away, torn bits of vinyl still stuck to the glass. A half of a head here, a frayed little arm there.

This is Nicola’s car, alright. So he trudges onward, up the walk and to the door, determined to carry out the task that Wickman set him on this evening. For the first time in quite a while, Malcolm feels _nervous_ about doing something as he rings the bell. He thinks about turning and leaving but there’s an awful lot of yelling behind the door, specifically about who’s going to ‘ _fucking open the damn thing_ ’. And the idea of being caught halfway down the sidewalk trying to ping an Uber in the middle of the night and escape from her neighborhood is more embarrassing than actually being caught on her doorstep. So he waits.

More yelling. The sound of someone throwing something soft and heavy. A pillow perhaps. Then the jiggle of a handle and - a young woman in leggings and a jumper. Who looks an awful lot like Nicola. Slimmer in build, a little taller. Hair far more under control. Couple decades younger, but definitely _her_ daughter.

“You must be Katie, right?” He stammers, startled. Seeing Nicola’s progeny as an _adult_ has done his head in. A sledgehammer to his entire sense of the passage of time. “I’m uh - a friend of your mum’s. I came to drop some papers off for her.”

“Yeah, I know who the fuck you are.” She grimaces at him, arms crossed in a way that makes her look even _more_ like her mother. “And I’d appreciate it if you left _Nicola_ very much alone forever, you miserable old snake.”

The door slams abruptly in his face. Malcolm stands for a moment, blinking. He can’t say he didn’t deserve that. In fact, he’s almost proud of the amount of backbone the girl has. Definitely something from James’s side of the gene pool. He swallows thickly, then rings the bell again.

He can hear Nicola’s voice pretty clearly now over the din, the younger Murray saying something about “that Scottish fucker” and Nicola shouting about “having decisions made _for_ her” and “you can’t just _leave people_ outside the neighbors will _see_ ”. The door flings open, Nicola looking an absolute mess on the other side, holding it just wide enough to see her but not into the house.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Malcolm?” There’s a hoarse edge to her voice. It sounds like she’s spent most of the evening shouting. Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy from prolonged crying, completely undermining the false composure she is trying to affect in front of him. “Apart from the absolute fucking strangeness of showing up at my _house_ unannounced, I’m sure you can see that it is _really_ not a good time.”

He shuffles from one foot to the other, anxiously fiddling with the papers in his hand. In a moment of panic he thrusts them out at her, as if the bent up pages will explain his unexpected physical presence. She does not move to grab them, instead staring at him in utter confusion.

“You weren’t in class today,” he offers, motioning with the pages again. Annoyed, Nicola squints at him.

“I’m aware of that. Thank you,” she huffs. Katie shouts at her to tell him to fuck off back to whatever _hell_ he crawled out of _._ With a roll of her eyes and a slump of her shoulders, Nicola turns and shoots back. “Don’t tell me what to _do._ For fuck’s sake! I have things under control!”

“No you bloody don’t, Mum,” a new, younger voice screeches. “You obviously don’t! You don’t have anything under control!”

“You’re right. I should go,” Malcolm starts, turning on his heel and fishing for his phone in his jacket pocket. Whatever promise he made to Wickman, it didn’t include a cage match between the three Murray girls on their home turf. There is something going on here that doesn’t involve him and shouldn’t involve him. Nicola looks almost ashamed.

“No. Wait,” she sighs in resignation. He stops in his tracks, turning sheepishly to face her. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a bad day. I don’t - come inside and give me whatever you’re here to give me and I don’t know. Have a cup of tea. Or something. I’m sure my neighbors have heard more than enough from us this evening. Let’s at least continue this indoors.”

She opens the door the rest of the way, giving him enough space to duck in before shutting the door behind them. Malcolm takes a quick look into the sitting room, which is apparently the _wrong_ choice. He makes eye contact with Katie, who immediately grows furious at his mere presence inside their home, storming to the side table in the entryway and grabbing her car keys.

“I’m not staying in this house if you’re gonna let _him_ in here,” she hisses at Nicola as she brushes past them.

“Yeah! That’s _right,_ ” Ella howls from her place on the sofa, feet defiantly propped up on the coffee table. “Leave. You untrustworthy fucking cow. I don’t want you here anyway. Last time I ask you for _anything._ ”

“Fine by me. You both are obviously doing so well on your own,” Katie fires back, slamming the front door behind her. Nicola winces at the noise. She was not exaggerating when she implied that now was not a good time. Malcolm is at once very thankful that he has never had children. As much as he loves them, in an abstract kind of way, this seems rather _tiring._

“Your sister was right to tell me, Ella,” Nicola offers patiently, in that ‘mother knows best’ tone. “I’m disappointed that you didn’t feel like you could come to _me_ about this."

Ella snorts, abruptly standing from the sofa. While Katie looks so much like her mother, Ella is anything but, standing wiry and tall in her denim overalls and over-sized cardigan. Her face is all harsh angles and light eyes, framed by a massive growth of sandy blonde curls. She lacks the open kindness of Nicola’s looks. There’s a fight to her, a resiliency in her features. It reminds him a little of Deb. Almost of himself, if he allows it. 

“Don’t act like you care all of a sudden, Mum. Lying doesn’t suit you.” She snarls, before stomping up the staircase in her socks. In her anger, she almost knocks over the small boy sitting at the top landing.

“You shouldn’t say mean things about Mum. I don’t like it. It’s not nice.” His voice is quiet but firm, his green eyes turning into saucers when he says it. The whole situation is turning Malcolm’s stomach. He wishes that he had said no to Wickman. That he never got out of the car. That he left when Katie slammed the door in his face. That he died gasping for air on the floor of the prison library. Fucking shit.

“Why don’t you go in your room, Josh? You can take my iPad from the bedroom if you want.” Nicola gestures half-heartedly at him, a fake smile not quite reaching her eyes. The offer must be enticing, Josh standing and running off immediately. The subsequent quiet settling over the house is profoundly unsettling. They stand for a moment at the foot of the stairs, Malcolm still foolishly clutching the papers in his hands for lack of anything else to do.

The sound of Katie’s car starting and tearing out of the driveway jogs Nicola out of her reverie. She finally seems to realize that there is a _strange man_ standing in her hallway with nothing to do, and regains some semblance of composure. She mumbles something about tea and shuffles off to the kitchen, Malcolm following in tow. The house slippers she wears, these knitted boot _things_ , are endearing in a way that Malcolm can’t quite articulate. There is an uncomfortable silence as she fiddles with the kettle, Nicola setting into a lean against the counter as she waits for the water to heat.

“Now. What - what were you trying to tell me? Why are you _here_?”

Malcolm shrugs, setting the now hopelessly crumpled printouts on the counter next to her. “You weren’t in class today. Wickman said you had a family emergency - and that seeing as we’re friends and all - his words not mine, mind you.” She scoffs loudly at this description of _whatever_ they are to each other. It’s a near replica of the noise _he_ made when Wickman said it to him.

“Anyway, he wanted me to bring you the material from today. And to go over it with you.” Pulling her glasses down from their perch atop her head, she makes an attempt at reading the aforementioned paperwork. But her eyes quickly glaze over. Something else is bothering her. “Not that I think you need me to do it. I’m pretty sure you can read it on your own.”

His words fall on deaf ears, Nicola still processing his recounting of Wickman’s statement.

“Friends?” Malcolm shrugs with a noncommittal noise of agreement. Nicola mulls over her tea selection, settling for a basic red box of Twinings. She taps it solidly against the counter. “He thinks we’re _friends_?”

“I - that’s what he said, yeah.” Malcolm is not sure what else he can say at this point. She is apparently quite offended and more than a little baffled by the assumption. If he wasn’t equally confused he’d be sore at how hard she’s taking it. The kettle is starting to grow shrill, forcing Nicola to move onward from her line of thinking.

“How do you take your tea?” Nicola slips into the familiar act of beverage preparation, mechanically setting two mugs on the counter and placing the bags within. The steam wafts upward from the cups in a pleasant curl.

“Hot.”

“Fuck off,” she bites back. Despite her bristling, there’s a slight grin curling at the sides of her lips. “No sugar, then? Milk?”

He shakes his head, taking the proffered mug. It’s heavy - expensive. An oyster-colored stoneware thing that sits warm in his hands. Something one would put on a wedding registry. “I like the mug.”

“James picked it out,” she explains bitterly, bending to open the dishwasher and starting on the ritual of putting things away. There’s something incredibly personal about the act, and it leaves Malcolm feeling distinctly out of place. “James picked out the mug. All of the mugs. And the plates. And the furniture. Everything. Everything I fucking touch is still _his._ There’s this residue on everything I own. I can’t make the house stop smelling like him. For fuck’s sake.”

She isn’t looking at him when she speaks. This is definitely no longer about the mugs or the tea, but has transcended into something else. He is quickly realizing that Nicola is _far_ less okay after today’s events than she is pretending to be. “Sometimes I see him in the _kids,_ Malcolm. Sometimes I look at Ella and I see him and - “

Nicola stops, transfixed by one of the matching mugs in her hand as she pulls it from the machine rack. Her chest rises and falls. She experimentally turns it over in her hand, and then smirks.

When she hurls it against the tile floor, it explodes with a satisfying smash. A salad plate suffers the same fate. Her fingers toy with the edge of a small bowl, now carried away by this wave of anger. Malcolm doesn’t seem to exist to her anymore. There is nothing but the sound of breaking glass.

“I hate it. I hate him. I hate what he’s done to me and to us and I can’t even fucking - I wish I could throw this at his fucking head - “ Her sentence is punctuated by the crash of the bowl against the floor. At this point there’s enough bits of ceramic laying around that the room is actively hazardous. Malcolm sets his tea on the counter and lunges for her, grabbing at her wrist. The glass she holds hangs dumbly in the air. He can’t remember ever having _touched_ her before. She’s not nearly as warm as he imagined, but her skin is soft against his palm. He can feel the throb of her pulse through a vein.

“Nic’la - come on. You’ve got to stop. Put it down. Take - show me where you keep your broom and I’ll clean it up.” His offer breaks through the haze, and he watches the rage leave her body in a rush. The tension drops from her shoulders, and with a shuddering breath she turns to finally look at him. Her face is a mask of weariness, riddled with new lines that he can’t remember ever having been there before. Malcolm would love to chalk it up to the inevitable passage of time - but he can’t help but imagine that he accelerated the process. The deep ridges in her forehead seem particularly _his fault._ “Go take your tea and sit down, alright? Fuckin’ hell. Careful. Watch where you step, yeah? I don’t need you mangling your slippers.”

He leads her to the dining table in a daze, hearing the crunch of glass beneath his shoes. She gestures vaguely at a cupboard, Malcolm finding a handheld broom and dustpan within, among the various bottles of spray cleaners and detergents. It takes him a few passes to be sure that all of the glass is gone, that none of the children are going to slice their toes off. He even goes so far as to shut the washer and make Nicola a fresh cup of tea. It’s a gesture born not entirely from kindness - he’d like to give her as much time as possible to piece herself back together in the other room.

When he sets her drink in front of her, it is in one of the few mugs he could find that didn’t match the one that started the whole debacle. It sat shoved in the back of a cabinet, behind the other much more expensive ones. A simple white one, with a watercolor painting of some yellow and pink flowers. The only thing in the whole kitchen that seemed distinctly _Nicola._

The slight gleam in her eyes at the sight of it is worth the trouble alone.

“Are you gonna tell me what happened today?” He is at once reminded of their conversation in the pub. Her admittance in the stairwell. It’s not fair of him, the way he keeps getting her to play her hand while he reveals almost nothing. She doesn’t even know he almost _died_. Who was the last person who he let know a damn thing about him? He backtracks. “You don’t - you don’t have to. If it’s too personal.”

“Ella and I haven’t been close in a while,” she mumbles, staring at the swirls of oils swimming atop her over-steeped tea. Malcolm lowers himself into the chair next to her with a quiet groan. His knees did not enjoy stooping to sweep the kitchen. “A long time. Probably since you made her go to that fucking comprehensive. Katie was so _easy._ Even if she was a bit rebellious - but it was always in a way I could _understand_. Ella always been such a fucking struggle and then that happened and - I think I lost her.”

Add ‘Nicola Murray’s relationship with her daughter’ to the list of his casualties, then. It’s strange. He’s always been so hell bent on forward motion that he never actually had to see the aftermath of his choices. Nicola just keeps rubbing his face in them, intentionally or otherwise. He tries to keep his tone even when he responds. 

“So you lost her - and you blame me for it?”

“I guess. I don’t know.” It would be so much easier if she had a little vitriol going. He could parse her being angry with _him._ Instead of this weird, wallowing sort of self-pity. Her voice drips with regret. “I could blame you but - really I blame myself. I should’ve stood up for her more. I should’ve stuck to my guns for her. Instead I caved and now we’re like strangers to each other. I just chucked her into a bin for my own career and then I wasn’t ever even _home_ and - she needed me. She needed me and I chose my career and politics and _you_ and look how well that worked out.”

She stops for a moment, collecting herself with a sip of her tea. She grimaces at the bitter tannins. He really must have left the bag in too long. Can’t even make her tea right. “She liked James. She _listened_ to James. And I wasn’t there for her and in her eyes I wasn’t there for James and - fuck.”

Every pause she takes leaves Malcolm wondering if he shouldn’t fill it. If there’s something - anything - that he should be offering to comfort her with. How can he comfort her when he’s the one who caused the damn wound? He’s resigned himself to offering some cheap platitude about things not being her fault when she speaks again. It is apparently Malcolm’s lot to sit and drink tea and listen. So be it.

“So she hasn’t been talking to me, which you know about. It’s been well over a week since she’s said _anything_. If I text her she just leaves me on read.” She leans back in her seat, closing her eyes and toying with the buttons of her cardigan. “I get a call from Katie this morning that she drove Ella to the pharmacy yesterday to pick up a morning after pill because her boyfriend’s condom fucking broke. I didn’t even - I didn’t even know Ella had been _seeing_ anyone. Katie felt bad that she didn’t tell me and she wanted to make sure Ella was feeling okay and didn’t have an adverse reaction or anything and - then we just ended up screaming at each other. The first time I can get her to _speak_ to me and we end up - fuck. Katie drove over here to try and talk her down but that just made it worse, so I called Wickman and lied and said she _was_ having a reaction to some medication and - I would’ve taken her.”

She looks at Malcolm, that puffy redness coming back to her eyes as they well up with tears. There’s a shudder behind her breath, the sound that comes from too much crying. God, how he wants her to just reach over and _hit_ him. Rather than sitting here clawing at her own insides.

“I would’ve taken her and I wouldn’t have cared. But I gave her up, long ago. I gave all of this up and I gave _myself_ up to do … what, exactly? I threw everything I had into fucking _politics_. And now I’ve got nothing to show for it. Other than _you_ sitting here at my table, making me terrible tea and listening to me cry.”

At some point during her outburst, his hand found its way to her wrist again. Traitorous thing that it is. And now, to his own bafflement, his thumb gently strokes the soft skin there. It appears to be the right thing to do, as much as feels wrong for doing it, because Nicola doesn’t pull her hand away. Instead, she inches it closer to him, making it easier for him to reach.

If he could articulate to her the enormity of his sympathy he would. Because this is something that Malcolm Tucker understands better than anyone else. The sensation of receding tide, of making the necessary sacrifices for some nebulous greater purpose only to find that when that purpose leaves you - then there is nothing left. There is only regret and ruin and a sense of what could have been.

When her eyes meet his, an apology bubbles up in his throat. But he squashes it, recalling her repeated insistence that he not do exactly that. Instead, he continues the small motions of his thumb and tries his best not to look away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter named for the philip glass composition. [specifically for [this ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2NfBmjCUKps) delightful rework of the opening. the bit from about 3:30 to 5:00 always gets to me. My brain decided that Nicola is the warm toasty string section and Malcolm is the tense and nervy piano and it _kills me_.]


	5. glad and sorry.

**four: get some exercise**  
physical activity can help reduce stress that can cause you to become angry  
if you feel your anger escalating, go for a brisk walk or run

He considers, sitting on his sofa with a cup of decaf and idly scrolling the Independent’s front page in the early hours of the morning, the faces of Nicola’s children. Particularly, Ella’s snaggle-toothed sneer. Four children - all of whom were shaped in some way or another by Nicola’s career. Which was in turn, shaped by Malcolm’s own hands.

[He cannot blame himself for James’s untimely demise. Because if he blames himself, it would follow that he blames Nicola’s focus elsewhere for Mr. Murray’s wanderings. But that is unfair. James was a big man who could make his own choices. Pinning _that_ on Nicola would be ridiculous. That man made his own bed and was ultimately crumpled into it at a high speed.]

There is a very disturbing element to this line of thinking. While not the most mathematically minded of students, Malcolm had always been fascinated by exponential functions. They seemed to him a form of magic, the way that figures could snowball like that. That they could so rapidly escalate. Now, that fascination turns to a creeping sense of foreboding. Because Nicola Murray was only one person mangled by the gears of his political machine. And if destroying _her_ lead to such unforeseen circumstances for the four smaller Murrays - well. The list of people that Malcolm Tucker has maimed or killed in one way or another is miles long. To imagine then, the outward ripple? The three or four lives invariably connected to each victim - and the lives connected to _those._

Malcolm Tucker sits in the middle of a massive web. Each and every movement spreading outward, these great waves of consequence. All traced back to him.

Fuck. Fucking shitting fuck.

His coffee - already terrible by the nature of being decaf - is cold. He drinks it anyway, grimacing at the unpleasant flavor before standing with a stretch and taking the mug to the sink. Miserable lukewarm fucking bean water. He regrets going to that house, and after spending his entire Saturday reflecting on things, Malcolm can’t help but question if Wickman didn’t have some sort of ulterior motive for sending him over there in the first place. It first occurred to him while at the grocery store yesterday afternoon, loading his items onto the conveyor belt. As his hand fumbled at a bottle of embarrassingly pricey olive oil, he recalled the way that Wickman had _looked_ when he insinuated their friendship. The times that he has caught the man watching them, bickering and huffing like a pair of teenagers.

Wickman sent him to Nicola’s house in some misguided attempt to _help_ them. The buffoon. He’s left to wonder what Wickman thinks they are to each other. He must recognize Nicola in some capacity - even if he lived under a rock he would vaguely remember her. Had he recognized Malcolm? Does he _know_ what they are to each other? Or does he just think of them as cranky old acquaintances who need to be pushed into friendship?

The worst of it had not sunk in until this morning. The possibility that - god forbid - he’s playing at being a _matchmaker_.

That’s absurd. That can’t possibly - no. Nicola isn’t - she’s Nicola. Nicola Murray was at one point, if one squinted very hard and looked from very _far_ away while plugging their ears, Malcolm’s friend. But that was the end of it. And that was before he completely torpedoed her career [and her entire life, apparently.] He glances at the clock before heading upstairs - nine thirty. Not enough time for a full shower, but enough to get himself cleaned up.

It’s not that she’s _not_ attractive. She just isn’t his type. Or at least, not historically speaking. Malcolm has always gone for people with _teeth_. Lean and hungry types. The sort made of harsh edges, with crooked smiles and unkind eyes. Jamie and Evie - even that girl from the BBC had that going for her, though she was a little vapid for his tastes.

Malcolm has never been able to dry-swallow pills, a fact which would surprise most people that he knows. He bends at the tap and takes a swig of tepid sink water to easy the capsules down his throat. While he is attempting this rather routine maneuver, he thinks of the generous curve of Nicola Murray’s arse and nearly chokes. Maybe, for once, Malcolm could be swayed by someone _soft._ All of the time he spent in close proximity with her, he never really _looked_ at her like that. Or at least - he didn’t think he did. But he can picture quite clearly the swell of her breasts under a blouse. And that pair of twin freckles on her collarbone that would show when she bent forward at her desk, frowning at a figure or bit of paperwork. He wonders involuntarily if her skin there would taste salty or sweet.

No.

No no _no._

This is bad. This is catastrophically bad. The Widow Murray is not only not his friend, not only someone he should not think about pursuing in a million fucking years, but is also currently embroiled in a complete and total life implosion. Now is not the time for any of his blood to be diverting southward at the thought of how full her thighs seem to be or how plush her lips would - no.

Malcolm quickly splashes a handful of cold water against his face. No. Think about … anything else. Think about Steve Fleming or his secondary school English Teacher with the fetid teeth who smelled like cabbages or _Maggie Thatcher._ There we go. That does it. Old reliable. Margaret Thatcher’s fried coiffure consistently flushes any sexual feelings right out of Malcolm’s system. Thank God for that.

As he combs his beard, trimming some of the more unruly hairs, he is able to return to his previous line of thinking. The one derailed by his more base instincts. Wickman’s meddling is so supremely misguided - even if Malcolm for one moment found her in _any way_ desirable, and if Nicola baffling returned that physical attraction - there is still the much larger issue at hand. Which is that Malcolm doesn’t even have the distinction of being Brutus to her Caesar. He was _Cassius_ , sadistic ring-leading little fuck. Lean and hungry is right, if the gaunt face in the mirror is anything to go by. 

And if Nicola was ever for a second willing to overlook the mountain of pain and misery and fucking insanity that he put her through for oh, going on five years now - he wouldn’t be good for her. Not ever. Malcolm has a tendency to burn everyone he touches to a fucking crisp.

By the time he has finished flossing, cleaned the film off of his glasses and done something about the nebulous tuft of silver sprouting from the top of his head, he finds that he still has about ten minutes to spare. And that’s _before_ the time that they agreed upon. As committed as he is to being reliably early, she is equally intent on being slightly behind schedule.

Sitting on one of the posh stools in the ‘breakfast nook’ his decorator so lovingly crafted - that has become nothing more than a place to pile the mail and bits of paper detritus - he unlocks his phone and does something that could be quite stupid and ill-considered. All of this reminiscing has left him with questions that can only be answered by a particular person. He knows the man’s email has probably changed, and he certainly isn’t going to shoot him a text after not speaking for several rotations around the sun. But he does still have a functioning LinkedIn profile.

Throwing caution to the wind, Malcolm Tucker shoots Jamie MacDonald a very brief and clinical sounding hello. After he presses send and his stomach does the requisite little flip, he also notices in rapid succession two missed calls from Clyde - one yesterday, the other during the Friday night dust-up at the Murray residence - and a small white envelope buried in the pile of crumpled sales flyers and takeaway menus littering the counter.

It is addressed to him in a familiar looping script. Rounded and feminine, slanted slightly to the right. He knows before opening it or looking at the return address exactly who sent this piece of mail his way. Turning the envelope upside down, an orange card no bigger than his palm tumbles out onto the counter. 

A fucking “get out of jail free” card. He finds himself grinning like a fiend. She’s always known how to make him laugh. It’s the only thing in the envelope. Scrawled on the back around the massive question mark is a short note:

> _You never told me you were on the outside. Give us a ring? Sam._

The doorbell rings, an impatient double buzz signature to his sister. Signature to his whole family, really. He's prone to doing the exact same fucking thing. Malcolm rises from his stool too slowly for her liking, and is greeted by the Tucker Family Classic: A Third Buzz and A Loud Knock.

“Hold onto your fuckin’ knickers, ye wee cunt,” he howls kindly, adjusting his scarf and double checking his pockets for his house keys, wallet and phone. There’s a scrabbling of tiny claws against the base of the door. She must be truly impatient - Rufus is an exceptionally obedient pup and would only get at the door if encouraged. With a sigh, he prepares himself for the blast of unpleasant March air that will greet him when he opens the door.

He hadn’t adequately prepared himself for the explosion of Deb. That’s not something he’s ever gotten a handle on. Despite four decades of trying.

“Fuckin’ Christ, Malc,” she chides with a broad grin, running a hand through the tangled mountain of grey curls swirling around her head. Deborah may be younger than him, but it’s a Tucker family trait for everything to go a wiry silver early on. She never saw the point in fighting it with dye. “You look like absolute _shite._ I mean, you’ve always looked like death warmed over but - did they actually revive you when yer wee shriveled heart gave out or no? Cause you look like a ghost bumbling around with unfinished business.”

There’s a tiny whimper from the single stone of brown fur next to his sister’s calf. Rufus has historically enjoyed Malcolm’s company, and the dog is beside himself with excitement. Ensuring that the door behind him has locked, Malcolm pats at his thigh in welcome. He launches at him, licking and nipping at his fingers in joy. Malcolm has always been decidedly a dog person. Dogs are much nobler than men. Dogs don’t lie.

“Have I ever told you that you’re an insufferable fuckin’ git?” He snarls, leading the trio down the walk to the small park near his home. Deb laughs heartily. It’s a warm, rich sound. One that Malcolm’s realizing much too late that he’s missed. 

“Aye, only a few thousand fuckin’ times.” She reaches over and adjusts his scarf, the lock on Rufus’s extendable lead clicking audibly. Her eyes search his face, assessing the damage. “Really, though. How are you holdin’ up?”

“I’m sober, if that’s what you’re asking.” A car passes by with the windows rolled down, blaring some bit of hip hop that’s entirely out of place in the Sunday morning quiet. Malcolm waits until it turns the corner before continuing. “I’m not drinking and I’m not smoking and I’m listening to my doctor. Nothing’s happened to my heart. I’m not gonna tumble over and croak on you all of a sudden, alright? I’m not dad.”

She trills her lips dramatically, blowing an errant curl from her forehead. It’s a habit she’s had since they were tots, one that’s always driven Malcolm up a wall. “That’s not what I mean you fuckin’ numpty. How _are_ you? You lost your job, Malc. And I know for a fact that job was all you had going. I worry about you. It’s not just me - Anne’s been asking after you, too.”

They pause for a moment, checking the street for cars before crossing to the park. Rufus trots alongside them at a quick clip. 

“How is the wee lass?” He should check his Facebook when he gets home. His niece has probably sent him quite a few updates during his time in the nick. The idea that he’s just been ignoring them fills him with considerable shame.

“Not so wee anymore,” Deb barks out a laugh that echoes in the air. The park is quieter than usual - other than a few errant cyclists and a young couple with a comically rotund bulldog, they have the place to themselves. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re turning right fuckin’ ancient, you and me. She’s doing shittin’ fabulous at uni. Spectacularly swotty little thing. Nothing like us, I’ll tell you that.”

Deb stops in her tracks. It’s abrupt enough that Malcolm nearly bowls into her, struggling to maneuver his way over Rufus’s leash without tangling his ankles in the cord.

“You’re deflecting again, you sneaky bastard.”

“You’re like a dog with a fuckin’ bone, Deb. Relentless pain in my arse.” He never could pull one over on the girl. Just as shrewd as he ever was. Might as well be honest with her. “Yeah, I’m alright. As alright as I can be, things being as they are. I’m taking things one day at a time, yeah?”

Deb nods towards a nearby bench with her chin. They change course, ambling towards it. “You shagging anybody?”

“Jesus, I’ve only been out of gaol for a fuckin’ month,” he huffs, lowering himself onto the seat. Rufus settles affectionately next to his ankles, Malcolm idly scratching at his warm little head. “What, you think I met somebody on the inside?”

“No. Christ, you’re a testy little shite today, aren’t you? What happened to - oh. What’s his fuckin' name?” Deb loosely flops down onto the bench next to him, draping an arm behind him. The other gestures broadly, as if she could physically _pull_ the name from the air. “The one you used to blather on about all the time. The one from your job.”

“Jamie?”

She gives him a playful swat on the side of the head. He makes a show of having to readjust his glasses. “No, not fuckin' Jamie. Of course I remember _his_ name. I’m not a complete fuckin’ bampot. The other one - the bastard after that. The one that kept giving you all the trouble. I swear, you talked about him every time we spoke. It was so precious - the way you kept griping and moaning and carrying on about him. Like an old married couple. I haven’t heard somebody rile you like that in fuckin’ ages. He sounded perfect for you.”

After Jamie? Who the _fuck_ would’ve come after Jamie? He can’t possibly recall a single man that he would’ve spoken to Deb about, certainly not from work and definitely not with enough frequency to leave an impression. He genuinely tries to recall this mystery individual, but comes up short. 

“I haven’t the slightest scrap of a clue who you’re going on about.”

“He came on a few years ago and you kept wanting to hate him - but God if he didn’t keep _surprising_ you at every turn. You always told me how much of a breath of fresh air he was.” She chews at the inside of her cheek, determined to figure out who Malcolm’s missed love connection might be. Deb might be the only person in the world more persistent than he is. It’s unpleasant seeing that energy directed at himself. “Fuck. If I could only remember his fuckin’ name - something short and sweet. You were calling him by a little nickname, that’s what it was. One of those affectionate monosyllabic things.”

This is starting to make him supremely uncomfortable. She is utterly convinced that Malcolm had found a potential soulmate and was so endeared to him that he gave the gent a _nickname_. There’s a massive gaping void in Malcolm’s memory, and it’s scaring him half to death. Can a minor heart attack cause brain damage? “I really don’t - “

“You’d call me and tell me how much you thought he was gonna fail today and that he kind of failed but kind of didn’t and was so much nicer to be around than everybody else and fuckin' - fuck. Fuck! I’ve got it!” She whoops suddenly in triumph, loudly enough that a passing cyclist turns and stares. Without hesitation, she flips him the bird with a sneer. You can take the girl out of Glasgow … “Oh, hang on. Rufus is having himself a nice shit.”

While she was busy trying to recall Malcolm’s future spouse, Rufus had wandered into the grass behind them and was now attempting to kick bits of it over a fresh set of droppings. Deb sets off to pick it up, fishing for a plastic bag in the pocket of her jeans. Until she tosses the offending bundle into the nearest rubbish bin, Malcolm is left to sit in suspense and by the time she returns, he’s on the edge of his seat.

“Nick. His name was Nick.” She sits again, grinning from ear to ear. Looking much like the proverbial cat with the canary. “You acted like you hated him but I’ll be damned if you didn’t sound like a wee little schoolgirl with a raging crush.”

There is a moment of outright incomprehension - as if his brain refuses to accept the answer he’s been given. Then, everything tumbles together all at once. He’s so thoroughly horrified by the concept that he leaps up from the bench. “Nic - Nic’la? Jesus. You mean Nicola _fuckin’_ Murray?”

The self-satisfied smile drops from her face almost immediately. 

“Hang on - Nick was _Nicola Murray_? Malc - oh no. You didn’t,” Deb whines, dropping her head into her hands. Her hair hangs around her in a thick curtain. Not being able to see her face, he can’t ascertain where she’s going with this. “You fuckin’ didn’t. You miserable fuckin’ _scrote_.”

“What? What did I do?” This entire conversation feels categorically insane. Rufus is now _staring_ at him, doing that absurd little tilt with his ears.

“Och! Don’t act fuckin’ empty-headed with me. You reckless shittin’ bawbag,” she explodes, snapping up to look at him. Whatever thought process is writhing through her brain right now has left his sister absolute _furious._ He fears for a moment that she’s going to launch from the bench and throttle him with her bare hands. “Jesus - I saw what happened to her. We all saw what fuckin’ happened to her! And don’t think I don’t know that you were behind it all. I never - fuckin’ _shit._ You took the one person that made you happy in I don’t know _how_ long and you had her publicly drawn and fuckin’ quartered. Made her go out in front of the press and blow herself right to _fuck._ Fat lot of good it did you, in the end.”

Malcolm is stunned into silence. He sputters, hands hanging uselessly in the air in front of him. His mouth opens and closes several times before he can manage to form anything resembling human speech. “You - you think she made me _happy_? Have you gone fuckin’ mental?”  
  
“Please. I kept waiting for you to announce your engagement,” she scoffs at him and rolls her eyes. As if what she’s saying is the most obvious thing in the world. Malcolm wonders if he actually died in that library. If this is what Hell feels like. If all of this is some massive cosmic joke. “You fuckin - here. D’you know what? You talked about Nic the way dad talked about mam.”

He keeps waiting for her to laugh. For his sister to tell him that no, she doesn’t actually mean that. To snort and cackle and tell him that he should _see_ the look on his stupid fuckin’ face. But she doesn’t. Deborah earnestly believes that Nicola made him happy. And from the weary anger in her cornflower eyes, he can see that she believes he ruined it for himself. Intentionally or not. And, historically speaking, Deb has never been wrong about him. There have been countless times where Deb knows him better than he knows himself. Which is why he feels like he might vomit on his shoes.

Nicola Murray made him happy, apparently. And all she got for her troubles was knifed in the back. He thinks of Dante, and recalls with a roll of his stomach that Cassius ended up in the right mouth of the devil. Gnawed to a bloody pulp for eternity. His phone chimes, Deb waving her hand at the sound.

“Go ahead and check it, I know you want to.”

He has a text. A number he doesn’t recognize. As he reads it, his knees go a touch wobbly. When it rains it fucking pours, yeah?

> _saw ur message. got ur number from sam, u elusive cunt. linkedin? who fuckn does that? geezer. - J_


	6. prelude op. 28 no. 4

**five: stick with 'I statements'**  
to avoid criticizing or placing blame use "I" statements to describe the problem  
be respectful and specific

The whole apartment smells of damp. It always does in the fall, when the rains never seem to let up. That cold drizzly wet that seeps through the walls. The power must be out again - he can see the honey-colored flicker of candlelight against the skin of his forearm. He blearily tugs at the wool blanket, trying to cover himself enough to block out the light and the sound of the raindrops slapping the window panes. But something heavy prevents him - there’s a groan and a grumble and a solid arm carelessly heaved over his chest.

Fuckin’ hell. Jamie fell asleep with the candles lit again. He’s gonna burn the whole building down. He’s gonna get them both fuckin’ killed before they ever scrabble out of this hellhole.

“I’ve told you time and a-fuckin’-gain not to leave all this shit on fire, you fuckin’ dafty,” he hisses, too tired to give it the vitriol he would like.

Jamie playfully knocks a knee against his thigh. “Did ye, aye? Big man.”

“I don’t know about you but I’m not plannin’ on dyin’ in Glasgow,” Malcolm shoots back, rubbing at his sleep-encrusted eyes with the back of his hand. He notices that his hand seems too old, somehow. The joints are all swollen with age.

“No, course not. You got a future. You got yourself a nice gilded fuckin’ cage to bat up against, yeah?” He spits out with a sudden venomous shift in attitude. Jamie goes quiet for a moment, breathing hard enough that Malcolm can _hear_ it over the rattle of the window in its frame. “You shouldn’t marry her, Malc. You’re makin’ a colossal fuckin’ miscalculation and you know it. Else you wouldn’t be here.”

Malcolm rises on his elbows, turning to look at him. But the face he sees doesn’t make any sense - it’s got too many lines, too much hair. There’s an empty space along his sternum where the silver crucifix on a chain should be.

“You never should have fuckin’ married her,” he broods. Malcolm grabs one of the lumpy pillows he’s kicked to the foot of the bed and lops the man upside the head with it before petulantly flopping back onto his side. He doesn’t have to listen to this. He doesn’t have to justify himself to Jamie. “You shouldn’t have taken me to London with you either.”

“Shut up. Shut up and let me fuckin’ sleep, you whinging little _shite,_ ” Malcolm sneers, ignoring the nagging at the back of his brain - that the verb tenses are all wrong and Jamie hasn’t yet followed him to London like a stray fuckin’ pup. There’s a huff from behind him as Jamie shuffles back under the blanket and curls around his side. But there’s something wrong with that too - he’s too soft. The hand that splays against his waist is too small and far too gentle. He tries to push it out of his mind - to just fucking _sleep_ like he so desperately wants. To enjoy the feeling of being on this worn-out mattress in this moldy flat because something tells him it’s the last time things will ever feel this simple.

“He’s right you know.” A mouth whispers against his ear. His stomach turns to ice. Malcolm does not want to turn around. He does not want to see the face attached to the warm and distinctly female form pressed against his. But he can _feel_ their eyes boring holes into the side of his skull. Reluctantly, he turns. And his breath catches in his throat.

She’s sitting up - the blanket pulled tastefully across her chest - chestnut hair chaotically tossed about. He marvels at the expanse of bare skin, the pleasant curve of her exposed shoulders. Evie liked to smoke in bed. Watched too many noirs. Always thought of herself as a nouveau femme fatale. But _she’s_ smoking that ridiculous electronic thing, a tiny blinking led-light visible in the puff of lavender-scented vapor clouding around her mouth. Those baleful mossy eyes searching his face.

He knows what Nicola’s going to say before she says it. Doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“You never should’ve asked me to stay.” 

Malcolm is catapulted back into consciousness, legs tangled in wet sheets. His neck feels wrong - like he’s slept on his back all night. With a series of violent pops, he forces himself up on his elbows and shuffles to the en suite. He has to piss like a fucking racehorse, but the visual of Nicola’s clavicle beneath his bedsheets was enough to give him a stiffy the likes of which he hasn’t had in decades. Malcolm has to run his hand under a cold tap for the better part of a minute just to get the damn thing to settle down enough to relieve himself.

Snippets of the dream flash behind his eyes throughout his morning shower. Apparently a single text message exchange with Jamie _days ago_ was enough for his subconscious to have itself a field day. He had waited until after dinner with Deb to answer him, mulling over possible replies between bites of takeaway curry and begging whimpers from Rufus. She had finally ruffled his hair one last time, packing herself and the dog into a cab to the train station, all the while bemoaning how much easier things would be if Malcolm fucking _drove_ like everyone else. Finding himself alone, he plopped himself down on the sofa and stared at his inbox.

After about thirty false-starts he finally settled on a utilitarian and totally inadequate ‘how r u?’ and hesitantly hit send. He hadn’t even set the phone down on the coffee table before it chimed with a response.

> _wouldn’t u rather do this in person? were in ldn weekend after next. i can swing by, if u want._

He panicked and answered with a thumbs-up emoji, which felt absolutely fucking ridiculous the moment he sent it. Malcolm then proceeded to spend the rest of the week not only _actively dreading_ this future weekend, but wondering who exactly was coming to London. Jamie did not say _I_ am in London. He said _we_ are in London. Who the fuck is _we_?

This combined with his sister’s insistence that his relationship with Nicola Murray was in any way beneficial to him and the realization that he may have possibly somewhat irrevocably fucked the Murray clan’s lives fermented into one hell of a nightmare. A sprinkling of mid-morning testosterone and his increasingly intrusive ruminations on Nicola’s physique finished the job.

He thinks again of the vapor coiling around her lips outside of the pub, idly soaping his stomach. From seemingly nowhere, a freight train of recollection. Arguing about some stupid fucking triviality in his office, a bagel smeared on the interior of his door. He shouted something and she shouted something back and then - bafflingly - she shoved past him. But then - the kicker. He made a juvenile reference to his ability to _get it up_ and she - she turned and looked at him. She was so _smug_ and _angry_ and _confident_ and he can’t remember a woman ever looking at him like that before and -

His cock twitches against his stomach. Judas that it is.

Determined to _not_ start his day by tugging one out in the shower to whatever the fuck this is, he grits his teeth and waits, turning the water as cold as he can stand against his skin. Nicola deserves better than lukewarm spunk in a tub drain. Nicola deserves better than a half-hearted wank in the shower to some _pornographic_ imagining of her. He thinks of her words in his dream - words which of course, being his dream, are from his own brain.

“You never should’ve asked me to stay.”

That little nugget is what haunts him for the rest of his day. It echoes in his skull throughout the conference call he sits in on. While he makes himself lunch. While he types up a scathing response to one of the least proofread emails he’s ever received in a professional capacity. It leaves him so distracted that he neglects to check the weather before he leaves his home, noting with concern the faint rumbles of the ashen sky as he walks to this evening’s class.

As he takes his chair at the left of the room, he can’t stop wondering _why_ she decided to stay. Malcolm had always assumed that her decision was born of ambition, a knee-jerk response to his dangling of the foreign office position. But this assumption is proving difficult to align with what experience has shown him. Nicola’s ascension to Leader was perplexing at best - and once she was _there_ she didn’t seem to know what the fuck to do with it. Malcolm is beginning to learn that the ability to recall and the ability to understand and interpret are two wildly different skill sets. And that he might be lacking in the latter department.

Nicola arrives only minutes after he does, settling into her now tacitly assigned seat at his side. She looks better than she did the last time he saw her - which isn’t saying much, considering she had last been seen weepy-eyed and breaking housewares.

“You doin’ alright?” He murmurs, leaning into her space as she reaches in her handbag for her glasses. She must be farsighted, he reasons, since she doesn’t need the glasses to drive or walk. “Has she - has Ella..”

“She has. We’re - talking. A bit.” Nicola pauses to power down her cell phone, settling back into her chair. “It’s not perfect, but it’s something.” 

Before he can respond, Malcolm notices that Wickman is watching them. Not obviously, not in a way that would catch his attention if he hadn’t already given it a thought. But there is no doubt in Malcolm’s mind that the man’s eyes keep darting up from his paperwork and glancing in their general direction. And if he isn’t mistaken, there’s a smug little grin at the corner of his lips. Bastard. Malcolm’s assumption was correct - he really does fancy himself some kind of matchmaker.

Which leaves him to wonder - is it working? He’s experienced significantly more thoughts about Nicola of a sexual [he can’t bring himself to even _think_ the word romantic] nature than he ever did before. How much of that is Wickman’s machinations? Sneaky little fucker.

It’s kind of pleasant, now that he isn’t terrified of the woman next to him. That there’s a measure of civility to their shared space. He can actually focus on the material of the class. And he’s finding that it’s moderately helpful. Something about ‘I Statements’ and focusing on yourself and the source of your anger instead of immediately placing vague blame on others. It’s not reinventing the wheel or anything. And it’s about as helpful as every other ‘let’s all sit in a semi-circle and _share_ ’ thing he’s attended over the years. The crowd here is certainly less abysmal than the others, but he still can’t help but feel like someone should be offering coffee. That he should be absentmindedly twirling a cheap plastic chip between his fingers.

Much to his dismay, the rolls of thunder he heard merely an hour ago are no longer distant. As he stands to leave a crash of lightning illuminates the sky and he instinctively starts to count. Three seconds before the subsequent crack. There’s no way he’s making it home before the storm descends upon them. Shame. He really liked these shoes. As much as he’d love to talk to her, to find out exactly what happened with her daughters in the last few days, he can sense her unease at the oncoming storm. She turns her head to glance at another flash and her lips form a taut grimace.

“Go. Make it to your car before this goes totally fuckin’ biblical. I’ll talk to you next week, yeah?”

“Right - thanks,” she blurts, turning on her heels and hustling out of the door. He doesn’t know how to interpret the second glance she throws over her shoulder, looking back at him on the way out.

There’s already a misty drizzle when he bustles out onto the sidewalk. Malcolm makes it a block and half before the sky opens and the shitstorm begins in earnest. He ducks under the awning of a small cafe, hoping against hope for a break in the rain. That the storm blows out as quickly as it came in. His luck is not good. Not only is the cafe closed for the evening but he finds that the storm is not going anywhere any time soon. The sidewalk is beginning to look like a miniature stream.

A horn honks to his right, startling him from his thoughts. He can barely make the car out in the downpour - a midsize white SUV from the looks of it. The driver side window rolls down a crack, just enough to shout out of without letting the deluge inside.

“Get in, you lousy bastard.” He can hardly hear her voice over the slap of the windshield wipers as they slosh great sheets of water off with each wave. Each car that passes her pushes a wake of water into the drain below, roaring as it works overtime to clear the street. “Seriously. I can’t stay pulled over here, there’s fucking traffic. Get in the bloody car before you give yourself pneumonia.”

He makes a mad dash from the awning to the car, flinging himself into the passenger side and slamming the door with a thud. The brief journey has left his socks soaked and his neck decidedly damp. He can’t fathom what walking home in this would have been like. Regardless, he feels odd about Nicola doing him a _favor._ “You don’t have to -”

“Fuck off with that. I’m already doing it,” she grumbles, flicking the indicator on and craning her head around, beginning the arduous process of rejoining traffic. The water is coming down so thick they can hardly see - just yellow headlights floating in a grey soup. “You’ve already got the seat wet. What, am I going to just chuck you back out into the rain?”

“Fair enough.” She’s got a point. Now that she’s said it, he feels ridiculous about his perfunctory gesture. It would be less weird to just accept the favor and move on with it. The car lurches into traffic and a driver behind them honks. He is grateful that there are no golf clubs in the backseat today.

“Where are you headed?” Nicola glances at him in the rearview mirror, their eyes meeting accidentally. She looks away. “I’m assuming it’s close if you intended to walk.”

“Couple blocks up the street. Not far.” How odd that he should know where she lives without her having that knowledge in kind. Symptomatic of the way he chooses to exist. “I should’ve grabbed an umbrella.”

She scoffs at the idea. It sounds stupid the minute it leaves his lips. “Wouldn’t have done a damn thing. The water out there was up to your ankles. Haven’t seen it come down like this in ages.” They sit for a moment at a stop sign that neither of them can really make out. She turns the radio down to better concentrate, the voices of the evening news fading to a whisper. Nicola brings a hand to her mouth in thought. “Sorry - do you not drive? I can’t actually imagine it, now that I’m thinking about it.”

This is not a topic of conversation that Malcolm broaches with anyone. Not ever. Living in a city with functioning public transportation and expensive parking usually eliminated the need. Beyond that - everyone at work had used the offered cars and drivers. Thankfully, it almost never came up. “No. I don’t. Used to, not anymore.”

“Is there a reason for that?” Nicola’s ears prick up on his intentional evasion, her eyebrows raising slightly. He allows the question to simply dangle in the air. If he’s lucky she’ll move on. She does not. “Or are you just going to continue to be a total fucking clam about yourself? Don’t think I haven’t noticed. We always end up talking about fucking _me_ and my nightmare. I’d appreciate a little quid pro quo.”

“Fuckin’ - fine.” She has a point. He can’t keep dodging her. It’s selfish and mean. He resigns himself with a sigh, waving his hand at the traffic light ahead. “Make a left at the corner.”

“Malcolm - this isn’t that close.” Nicola squints with a frown. “Were you really going to try and walk this far in this weather? Good to know you’re still as stubborn as always. That’s a universal constant, apparently.”

“Listen - d’you want me to tell you or not, then?” He snaps at her without meaning to. She doesn’t understand how hard this is for him - what all she’s asking him to do. It’s not her fault he’s so riled. It’s his own doing. He softens his tone, pointing out his front door as much as he can in the rain. “Third house from the end. On the left.”

“Fine. Hold on - let me pull over. Put my hazards on.” There is a moment of maneuvering - as expected Nicola is not the _best_ at parallel parking. The inclement weather certainly isn’t helping. He waits until the car has stopped and she has engaged the parking brake before continuing.

“I don’t drive anymore because - I had an accident, alright? A nasty one.” There. He’s said it. Maybe that will be _enough._ His fingers have barely graced the door handle when she speaks.

“So you’re what - _afraid_ of driving now?” She has the audacity to _smirk_ at him. Nicola does not get it at all. He’s going to have to actually explain things. “And you made fun of me for not getting in a fucking lift.”

He slaps the plastic of the door and she jumps slightly at the hollow thunk. “No - I - I’m trying to actually talk to you, yeah? Let me fucking - I’ve never told anybody about this, outside of - of a fuckin’ _meeting_.”

“I’m sorry,” she turns to him, eyes reading his intently. Something in them must concern her because she softens immediately. She even goes so far as to undo her seatbelt, shifting in her seat into a more comfortable position. “Really. I’m - please keep going.”

“I used to drink. You know that. I used to drink and then I stopped because - God. Fuck.” Here is the thing. Here is the big missing puzzle piece that he absolutely did not want to address. But if he doesn’t tell her this then - well. None of it will sink in. He feels sick. He’d rather disclose to her the details of this morning’s dream. “I need to back up. I need to fucking - I need to tell you about Evie if this is gonna make a lick of fuckin’ sense.”

“Evie?”

“My wife. Ex-wife,” he corrects himself hastily as he watches the way her eyebrows dart upward. The clarification mollifies her somewhat. “I met her back when I was fuckin’ freelancing. I was young and I was poor and I was furious and she _liked_ that. I wasn’t used to people liking me because of those things. I was used to people looking at me and wrinkling their fuckin’ noses or slamming doors in my face. Not that I ever minded. I wore it like a badge of honor - Jamie and I both did. Fuck the pricks, right? But then she comes along and … I didn’t realize. I was stupid and young and I didn’t realize.”

“Didn’t realize what?” She’s using that voice again - the one she used in the pub when she asked about the soda. Nicola actually _cares_.

“I was playin’ a part, yeah? Evie liked the idea of slumming it with me.” While he _has_ regaled several stuffy rooms full of blokes in recovery with a rough outline of the accident, this post-mortem of his marriage isn’t something he’s ever broached aloud. Each word stings. He’s going to bleed out in her front seat. A death by a thousand fucking cuts. “She liked the idea of pissing her dad off by fuckin’ around with a street rat. She got off on bringing me ‘round her parents and showing me off at these pretentious fuckin’ dinner parties. Like some sort of curiosity. Like a dog she found in the gutter that she dusted off and put in a little fuckin’ bowtie and top hat and taught to tap dance on cue. And as angry as it made me - I don’t know. It was nice. Having all that attention. I got addicted to trying to make her _love me_. I got addicted to the meager pittances of affection she would deign to lob my way.”

He notes the rushing sound of water as a car drives by. Nicola tentatively reaches a hand out, nudging it ever so closely to where his sits draped on the center console. She stops just shy of touching him. “That’s terrible. That’s - fucking hell, Malcolm.”

“The only way I could - I don’t know if I knew what I was doin’ or if it was some kind of fuckin’ subconscious impulse.” This is beyond saying things for the first time. This has escalated to _thinking_ things for the first time. Something about explaining this to her is bringing him a whole new level of clarity. “I just kept trying to play the part harder. Like a fuckin’ class clown. She wanted a bit of rough? Fine. I could get rougher. I could drink more. I could snort a little blow here and there - honestly that wasn’t even my fault. I didn’t even touch the stuff ‘till I met her. Fuckin’ posh girl shite.”

He braces for the inevitable recoil. For her to judge him in some capacity. To his astonishment, she crosses the final threshold. Her fingers slide gingerly atop his. “Eventually I just - I don’t know. It got bad, Nic’la. It got _really_ fuckin’ bad. I was …. I don’t blame her. For hatin’ me in the end. I’m startin’ to realize that everybody does. There’s a shelf-life to me.”

“Not everyone -” She gasps lightly, her eyebrows knit in pity. He tears his hand away as if burned.

“Fuckin’ don’t, Nic’la,” he snarls. He can’t take her insistence that she didn’t. Because they both know it isn’t true. “You hated me at the end. I made sure of that, didn’t I?”

She worries her bottom lip with her teeth. He fears that she will try to deny it. To his relief, Nicola assents with a curt nod. It’s a bittersweet victory - he’d actually like it if someone didn’t hate him. Once in a while. Maybe.

“Anyway - we were at another one of those fuckin’ dinner parties and I got fuckin’ pissed. Colossally fuckin’ _shithoused_. And I wanted to drive us both home and she kept trying to tell me no but I kept insisting and I think - I don’t really remember but she said that I called her some truly vile things and I tried to actually _force_ her into the car and she had to hit me with her handbag and she ran off to her dad cryin’.” He waits. He waits to see if she will tell him off. If she will realize how much of a miserable bastard he really is and push him out of the car and into the wet street. God, how he wishes she’d stop fucking _staring_ at him like that.

“She was right. About being too drunk to drive,” he swallows thickly, throwing himself into this river of remembrance. Knowing he will probably drown. “I made it five minutes down the road before I nailed a fuckin’ tree. I was too fuckin’ blasted to even change the radio when I got in - got stuck listening to this ridiculous Chopin compilation she had left in the disc player. Who drives around listening to _fuckin’ Chopin?_ I can’t hear that one prelude without wanting to vomit. The whole passenger side of the car was just - fuckin’ _gone._ I’m just sittin’ there with my seatbelt stuck staring at this gnarled pile of metal and glass where my wife would’ve been if she hadn’t fought like hell not to be. This piano keeps skipping over and over - the same thirty fuckin’ seconds.”

He can’t bear to look at her. To look at anything. He doesn’t see the interior of this car anymore - he’s there again, looking at bits of shattered windshield sprinkled on the seat. Listening to cars driving by on a rain slicked road. Too fucked up to make sense of the buckle for the lap belt. A shaky hand drifts to his face and comes away wet. He’s actually _fucking crying._ And he’s too far gone to care. The cat’s out of the bag - his voice cracks when he says her name. “Nic’la - I. I almost killed her.”

There is another crash of lightning. He counts to four before the thunder. 

“Is that why you still wear the ring?”

Her question comes to him from another dimension. From some other time and space far _far_ away from here. He can’t begin to process it. “What?”

“You still wear your wedding band,” she offers, glancing at his hand. His fingers find the ring of their own volition and rotate it slowly. “I’m not blind. I always assumed it - I don’t know. That she died suddenly. Or something. You never talked about her. Nobody did. But you always wore it.”

“And?” When he blinks the tears sting his eyes.

“It’s like you were saying about the Fanta - it’s a reminder. A tangible _thing_ that stops you from being that person again.” The statement leaves him stunned. He can’t - he’s worn the ring for years. He’s worn it every single day for _years_ and he never once questioned it. It never articulated itself to him this clearly. And it took Nicola Murray ten minutes in the front seat of her _car_ to crack the code. To force this revelation upon him. There’s a real concern that he’s going to have a second brush with death right here. In plain view of his front steps. 

She grabs for his hand again, earnestly this time. Nicola laces her fingers with his. “You really like to punish yourself don’t you?”

He lingers for a moment in the touch. This morning he found himself aroused by the thought of her in his bed - now he is satisfied by the mere brush of her palm against his skin. By the force with which she grips him. “Yeah. I guess I do. Don’t we all though?”

“Thank you. For being honest,” she murmurs, taking a moment to wipe at her own eyes with the back of her free hand. His emotional outburst was infectious it seems. With a clear of her throat, she attempts to regain a semblance of composure. “It - it means a lot to me.”

“Thank you. For listening.” He doesn’t know what to do with himself. This has been extremely surreal and entirely too much. Overcome by an impulsive desire to somehow show his gratitude, he raises her hand to his mouth and gently brushes his lips against her knuckles. If he allows himself to believe it, he can swear that Nicola smiles in response.

Another bright flash - six seconds this time before the accompanying sound. The storm is finally passing. With a glance outside of the window, he notes that the rain has shifted from torrential to merely steady. This might be the only chance he gets to make it inside.

He wordlessly tugs at the door handle and thrusts himself into the street, tromping through the puddles and up his front steps. He has barely begun the process of peeling off a ruined sock when there is an insistent series of knocks.

He flings the door open. Nicola shoves her way past him into the sitting room.

Furious, she wheels on him. Her hair is soaked from the run to his stoop. Thrusting her hand into her jacket pocket, she pulls out a bottle of pills. _His_ pills.

“Malcolm? You mind telling me what the _fuck_ all these are for?”


	7. at last.

**six: don't hold a grudge**  
forgiveness is a powerful tool  
if you can forgive someone who angered you  
you might both learn from the situation and strengthen your relationship.  
  
“Oh dear.”

Malcolm leans back on his heels, hands shoved deep in his pockets. They’ve never been the sort to hug. The man brushes past him and into the sitting room rather unceremoniously. He pushes aside the drifts of white stuffing covering the sofa. They float down onto the torn cushion on the floor. The one that he ripped to pieces because it _smelled_ like her. Floral and cloying and sweet.

“It’s two o’clock in the fuckin’ morning. Haven’t seen you since I got tossed in gaol. I ignored your calls for the last month,” Malcolm settles into the chair opposite. “I ring you up fuckin’ crying in the middle of the night. You trek all the way out to my home and it’s trashed. And all I get is ‘oh fuckin’ dear’?”

Clyde smirks. It’s as if not a day has passed since their last talk. “You’re sober. You felt comfortable with reaching out. That’s enough for me. Whether or not you tell me what transpired here is immaterial, really.”

“You never put up with my shite, did you?” Malcolm tried many sponsors. Many did not work. Clyde did. He struggles to find somewhere to start. To unpack the clusterfuck that he just experienced. It feels as if someone took a lead pipe to his ribs. “A girl - a woman. No. A _friend_ was here and I think - everything happened so fuckin’ fast.”  
  
He takes a long inhale before continuing. Before admitting it to himself.

"I think I really fucked up this time."

* * *

In an effort to stall for time, to formulate some kind of excuse or witty remark, he crosses behind her and shuts the door. It’s a futile attempt. By the time he’s standing in front of her, the anger in her eyes has completely wiped his brain. He stumbles backward, his calf awkwardly pressing against the corner of the coffee table.

“I don’t - those must have fallen out of my pocket-”

She slams the bottle down on the table, pills rattling against the plastic. “Why are you carrying around a bottle of ACE inhibitors? And what look to be fucking _warfarin_ tabs floating around in there, too?”

“I’m sorry - are those not my personal fuckin’ property? It’s my name on the bottle, yeah?” He stammers out, before his indignation is replaced by confusion. That was an awfully specific accusation. “What are you - a fuckin’ cardiologist now?”

“Right. A cardiologist.” Nicola hugs her arms across her chest. She can’t seem to bring herself to be smug about being correct. “Which is where you would have gotten these. What aren’t you telling me?”

For someone who was just extolling the virtues of quid pro quo, she’s being frustratingly elusive. “How d’you know what those are even for?”

“Because - my father, Malcolm. He has a terrible heart, alright?” Bringing a hand to her face, she rubs at her temples with her fingertips. There goes Malcolm - poking her in a soft spot _again._ He has such a penchant for stumbling upon her wounds. “I’m familiar with the cocktail of medications one is usually prescribed after a massive cardiac event. Don’t _spin_ this back at me, you fucking shit-weasel. Is this how you got out of prison?”

He can’t take how genuinely interested she is. Malcolm flings the question at her rather harshly. “Why do you care?”

Nicola all but explodes.

“You are truly the most self-absorbed fucking human being on the planet, you know that?” She shakes her head, barking out a laugh. There’s a moment where he fears she might physically lash out at him, her hands hovering in the air. She settles instead for slapping them down against the sides of her legs. “I care because - I don’t know! It would be nice to know if there’s a chance you’re going to keel over _dead_ while I’m talking to you!”

“Fine. Alright, yeah.” This is the most yelling that’s ever happened in his current home - he’s vaguely aware that the neighbors can probably hear him. Fuck ‘em. It’s been too long since he’s had a good row. It feels like slipping on a comfortable old pair of slippers. “I had a fuckin’ heart attack. In prison. Are you happy now? Can I take my capsules and be left alone? Just barging into my fuckin’ house and shouting at me.”

“Why? What happened?” He is relieved to see that in all the time that has passed between them, Nicola has regained some of her initial spark. It’s dawning on him how much he missed this. Rows with her. Specifically. The way she has to look _up_ at him from under those eyelashes. Her mouth gets so small.

“What the fuck d’you mean _what happened?_ ” Malcolm is carried away enough that his hands are doing that _thing_ they used to do. That sort of gesticulation one makes at landing aircraft. “Have you not witnessed the way I’ve lived my life for the last several decades? You can’t honestly tell me you’re surprised. That this comes as any sort of fuckin’ shock.”

She deflates, shoulders dropping. The proverbial hackles are no longer raised. “No. I guess not.”

Malcolm was not prepared for her to relent so abruptly. It has obliterated his rhythm. He darts his eyes around the room, trying to find something else to focus on. Something to do with his hands. He settles for grabbing the bottle of pills from the table, crossing to the kitchen to put them away in a cabinet. 

“So are you leaving now?” He calls to her from the other room. Now that they aren’t _yelling_ he isn’t sure what she’s still doing here. To his complete befuddlement, he turns the corner to see her flop down on the couch, head in her hands.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles from under her hair.

That definitely sounded like an apology. That was decidedly unexpected. “What?”

“It’s none of my business,” she elaborates. There is an air of defeat about her. A resignation that Malcolm does not particularly enjoy. “I shouldn’t have looked at them and I’m sorry. You’re right.”

“No - it’s actually -” Malcolm pauses, running a hand through his hair. He deliberates over his options before deciding that she ultimately _needs_ to hear this. That it’s something that needs to be said. Today is the day where the dam breaks and everything he’s been bottling up finally breaks loose. Malcolm joins her on the sofa, trying valiantly to ignore the sensation of her leg pressed against his. “It’s pretty exclusively your business, if I’m being honest.”

She frowns in confusion, deepening those lines on her forehead that he finds so stupidly fucking endearing. “How so?”

“I - I was thinking about you. When it happened.” The words tumble out of him in a rush. Like a baby’s projectile vomit.

“What?” He watches the gears in her brain set to grinding. There is a look of utter disbelief across her face. “What does that even - so you’re blaming _me_ for your heart giving out?”

“No - Jesus.” Malcolm winces. She couldn’t be more wrong. He impulsively reaches for her hand and takes it in his. “I - I keep thinkin’ about you. I can’t _stop_ thinkin’ about you. Every single day since your fuckin’ resignation. I thought about you _then_ and I thought about you in my cell and I even fuckin’ _dream_ about you! I think about you sittin’ next to me every single fuckin’ class. I’m _haunted_ by you, yeah? D’you get that? By the mess I made of you. I’ve fucked a lot of people over in my life - I’ve made a lot of really fucked off choices but _you,_ Nic’la. You take the cake. I was cruel in the end and you didn’t deserve it.”

He has lost her somewhere in the last bit. She had been following along so intently but something about his final insistence shuts her out. Her hand slips from his, Nicola retreating into herself. “It’s not your fault. You treated me just like you treated everyone else.”

“God - why can’t you just fuckin’ blame me?” He tries to rein in his voice - to not lash out. But this submissive self-pity she keeps wallowing in drives him right up a fucking wall. Where is the Nicola that was just hounding him up one side and down the other for hiding his illness? There’s a stumbling block in her entire way of thinking and he desperately wants to smash it to pieces. “Why can’t you look me in the face and tell me to fuck off?”

“Because it wasn’t _your fault_ ,” she whines, squeezing her eyes shut with a shake of her head.

His control snaps, voice raising back to a strident shout. “How is any of this _not_ my fault? How is any of this - what the fuck do you mean? You keep telling me that. To not apologize. Because it’s not my fuckin’ fault and I don’t understand -”

“You didn’t do anything to me that I didn’t _let_ happen!” She blurts out over him. Whatever has been burrowing deep in her fucking psyche is about to erupt out of her mouth. Finally. “I was just as complicit as you were. Fucking hell. It wasn’t your fault that I -”

She stops abruptly, mouth set in a grimace. He leans into her space, trying like hell to get her to _look_ at him. “That you _what,_ Nic’la? What?”

Nicola’s eyes snap up to meet his. And then she tears his world asunder.

“It wasn’t your fault that I had feelings for you.”

Malcolm stares at her blankly. Nothing seems to exist anymore. Nothing in his life has ever made a lick of sense, apparently. Everything has just been turned completely topsy fucking turvy. Nicola Murray came into his home and sat on his sofa and shot the fabric of his reality full of holes.

“I had feelings for you, yeah?” The words are bitter and sharp. An admittance mired in regret. He notes the careful usage of past tense. Everything she says is so clinical and detached - it sounds like something she’s rehearsed with a therapist. “And I let it cloud my judgement. I made foolish choices and I have no one to blame for those choices other than myself.”

“Nic’la … what on _earth?_ ”  
  
“You were _intoxicating_. Don’t pretend like you don’t know the effect you have on people. I got so sucked into the roller-coaster with you - the crushing lows and the transcendent fucking highs.” The wistful smile that blooms on her lips leaves him aching. He never imagined someone reminiscing about him. Someone looking back on Malcolm Tucker with fondness. “That feeling of having our backs against the wall and finding a way to scrabble out by the skin of our teeth. Being your partner - I thought we were partners, anyway. It felt like Nicola and Malcolm against the world sometimes. I was wrong, obviously. I was so catastrophically wrong. I thought - I don’t know. I thought I was different.”

There’s a hitch to her voice but she covers it with a steady inhale. He’s not sure if he should touch her. He’s never been less sure of what to do or say in his life. “I had no idea - “

“Really?” She scoffs. “You’re deliberately dense, then.”  
  
“No. I seriously didn’t fuckin’ know.” He holds his hands out in surrender. “You hid it mighty fuckin’ well.”

The suggestion riles her. Everything about her bristles at once. It was obviously not the right thing to say.

“Do you remember that time - when they thought I was announcing a leadership bid? I could’ve just lived with it. I could’ve waited for the twenty-four hour news cycle to be over and for the rabid dogs to latch onto something else, like they always do. Hell, James _congratulated_ me.” He notes the way she _spits_ her late husband’s name, taking a small pleasure in her venom. “But I saw you - you were practically dying over the whole affair. You had a breakdown in front of _Terri,_ of all fucking people. Terri, Malcolm. Do you not remember _chasing_ me down the hallway? I literally ran from you. Ran to go hurl myself over the live grenade. To sacrifice myself and my pride and my bloody dignity. To shit the bed in front of the press and hurl my fucking project onto the rubbish heap. Because you _needed me_ to fix it.”

Oh, God. If she was already that bad off _then -_ if she was willing to make herself look that much of a fool for him - oh, fucking _hell._ His stomach drops. “I asked you to stay - “

“Yeah,” she draws the word out, caressing it with a mouthful of sorrow. A syllable has never left him so acutely bereft. “And I did. Because you _needed me._ Are you starting to get the picture? Or do I need to go on? Do I need to tell you how many of my children’s school functions I missed or how many dinners with friends I bailed on because Malcolm fucking Tucker _needed me_? I can’t blame you for that. _I_ did that. I made those choices because - I don’t know if it’s because I loved you. I don’t think I can say that. I don’t think that’s what it was. I think I just loved the way it all made me feel. The way _you_ made me feel.”

A tear rolls down her cheek and he momentarily entertains the idea of brushing it away with the pad of his thumb. Blessedly, she gets to it before he does something that rash. “I became leader and - I don’t know. I didn’t do it _for_ you. I did actually want it. But I _had_ hoped that it would impress you. Somehow recapture that fleeting fucking feeling! Make you _proud_ of me. And then - you weren’t proud. You were never proud. Not even for a moment. I didn’t suit you anymore. I wasn’t part of _your_ plan. So you dropped me for Dan fucking Miller.”

“It’s not your fault that I - that I made up this whole false narrative in my head.” Her voice is rising again. He can’t decide if he prefers this to the almost crying. Both are pretty fucking terrible. “I fancied us some kind of fucking Beatrice and Benedick and - it was stupid. It was moronic. I can’t even blame my own husband for _cheating on me._ Because I stopped paying attention to our marriage, too. Only I was busy nursing a break-up from a relationship that didn’t even _exist._ "

“Nic’la - look at me.” She shakes her head, starting to stand, when Malcolm instinctively grabs for her shoulders. He gently pushes her down and rotates her towards him. Nicola still won’t _look_ at him, staring at the floor by his feet. “Nic’la. It’s not your fault. It’s not _your fault._ You have to let it go. You have to get angry with me. You have to stop lettin’ this eat you the fuck alive and you have to get angry _at me_.”

“I don’t know.” She draws her lip between her teeth. Her eyes glisten with tears when she finally brings her gaze up to his. The corners of her mouth twitch slightly. And if he isn’t mistaken, she’s closer to him than she was before. “You seem to be angry enough at yourself for the both of us.”

“I’m sorry I never noticed.” Malcolm’s hand is moving of its own accord - drifting up to the side of her face. His fingers gently brush an errant lock of hair behind her ear. Nicola leans into the touch like a contented cat. When she brings her hand to his, pressing it against her cheek, he half-expects her to purr. “I - I can’t say that I’d do anything differently. I can’t know that. No one can _possibly_ know that. But I’m _so sorry_ , Nic’la.”

Before he can stop to question it - to really think about how irrevocably stupid this is - that they’re moving _much too fast_ \- he’s leaning in and so is she. He’s so close that he can feel her exhales across his lip. Malcolm does not know which of them does it. Which one of them finally closes the distance. But her mouth is suddenly flush with his. And God - if it isn’t the most wonderful thing.

The way she kisses is so fucking soothing and tender and kind and _Nicola._ It feels like coming home. Everything tastes sweet. A supple moan tumbles out of her mouth when he slips his hand to the base of her neck, pulling her closer. And closer she comes, pushing him back into the sofa. The air in the room goes thin when she throws a jean-clad leg over his lap and settles into a comfortable straddle across his thighs.

No one in his life has ever been so gentle with him. Her hands sit feather-light on his shoulders - just enough to brace herself. And he could _weep_ at the shuddering way she inhales as he dips his hands under her blouse, dragging his nails along her sides. 

Malcolm has never been good at apologies. At least not the sort you say out loud. He has always chosen to express himself in more _tangible_ ways. His hand travels southward, fumbling at the button of her jeans.

“Is this alright?” He chokes out between increasingly frantic kisses. Button and zipper are dealt with and he splays his palm across her abdomen, not daring to cross that threshold without her permission. “Can I - d’you mind if -”

“Please,” she whimpers against his cheek. The need in her throat _kills him._ His fingers dip further down, beneath the elastic waistband of her knickers. He is made weak by the way she cants her hips. The way she instinctively moves against him. The angle is terrible - her jeans are slightly too tight for him to get the range of motion he’d like but the gasp that trembles out of her when he starts to make lazy circles against her is worth the inevitable cramping in his hand.

“That’s not - I need -” Any concern he had about her enthusiasm melts away as she grabs for his wrist, insistently pushing against his hand until his fingers slide the extra distance and curl upward into her. He hisses at the warmth. “God, yes. That’s perfect.”

Her forehead comes to rest against his, her eyes shut in angelic reverie. Her hair smells so fucking floral underneath the scent of the rain. Like roses slick with dew. The image would be unbelievably tender - so beautifully innocent - if not for the delicious way that she keeps rutting her hips against him. Despite the quiet, gentle breaths between them, Nicola Murray is currently _riding_ his hand in earnest.

“That’s it, love. You’re so beautiful like this.” The compliment cuts her - a strangled sob working its way through the back of her throat. He recalls the way she called herself a ‘miserable cow.’ Malcolm doubts those words were her own. “I mean it, Nic’la. You’re fuckin’ stunning. I could look at you for hours. I could sit here like this forever and a day and I _mean it_.”

She buries her head in the crook of his neck, but not before he sees a wayward grin work its way across her lips. And then she’s making these _noises_ \- these tiny whimpering sounds against his skin. And he can _swear,_ as she clenches against his hand and her body goes rigid, that he can hear her whisper his name.

In the ensuing silence, he can sense the panic starting to rise in the back of her mind. Before she can start to regret this and second guess herself like she always fucking does, he catches her in a kiss. Harder than before. Malcolm is the one who moans this time.

How long? How many years did he waste not doing _this_? How many thousands of kisses has he missed out on? Everything about her feels incredible. His fingers work on the top button of her blouse, sliding the fabric away and exposing one of those beautiful little blemishes along her collarbone. Looking at her - the way her kiss-swollen lips hang open so slightly, her hair sitting in this marvelous cloud - he feels the overwhelming urge to tell her how lovely she is. 

He does not realize that this is the moment all hell will break loose.

“God, I love your fuckin’ hair,” he snarls, reveling in the way it feels between his fingers. “Why’d you ever cut it?”

Nicola suddenly goes stiff. Those wonderful lips coming together in a frown. The spell they had both fallen under is beginning to expire. 

“Are you _serious_ right now? Stop - stop. Don’t touch me. Don’t -” She awkwardly climbs off of him, smoothing her hair with her hands. His stomach clenches at the way they shake. “Do you genuinely not remember - you told me to! I cut it because you kept telling me it wasn’t professional. I binned half my own fucking wardrobe for you! Because you didn't like it. I _loved_ my hair. But you wanted it cut so I did it and my _god._ You’re right! I shouldn’t blame myself.”

There’s a bitter little laugh on her tongue. Malcolm sits dumbfounded, watching her stand and button her trousers before setting to work on her blouse. Everything is suddenly slipping through his fingers - it’s like trying to hold onto sand. “Nic’la - I didn’t - I don’t remember tellin’ you to do that. You never _had_ to do that. It wasn’t that important to me."

“Of course you don’t remember. Of _course_ it wasn’t important to you. You are - you don’t ever stop to look at what you do to people, do you? You fucking _arse,”_ she howls, taking her keys from her pocket and clutching them tightly in her fist. “I was angry at myself for constructing this entire fake scenario in my head - and it turns out you did the exact same thing! You constructed a whole other reality where no one matters but yourself. I could handle you never noticing the way I felt but - you never noticed anything at all, did you? You don’t exist in a fucking vacuum, Malcolm.”

He should get up. He should stand and go to her and do … something. Anything. But he can’t. He’s trapped on this ridiculous sofa watching everything go to shit. 

“You wanted me mad at you? Fine. I am. I’m fucking furious.” Nicola crosses to the door, but she stops when her hand touches the knob. She lingers for a moment, shoulders heaving with the anger in her breath. When she speaks again, she does not turn to face him. “I can’t believe - you chew people up and you spit them out and I can’t believe I thought for a _second_ that I was any different. I can’t believe that I thought this could work.”

The door slams behind her.

It cleaves his heart in two. 


	8. i'll be seeing you.

**seven: know when to ask for help**  
learning to control anger is a challenge for everyone at times  
seek help for anger issues if your anger seems out of control  
causes you to do things you regret or hurts those around you

This has been the longest Friday of Malcolm’s entire fucking life. And he has had a lot of very long days. Days in which empires have risen and fallen and then risen again, resurrected in some fucked-off closed chamber with unremarkable carpet and greasy takeaway boxes.

He has to keep reminding himself that it’s Saturday now, anyway. Regardless of whether or not he actually slept. That Friday ended before he even thought to call Clyde. Before he sat on the floor of his sitting room, knees tucked under his coffee table, hands shaking after he gutted one of those gaudy scatter cushions and left the remains wherever they fell. He had tried to lay on it - to bury his face in the damn thing and let out a nice ragged scream - but it smelled of her. Of rose and rain and lavender and rosemary and so much fucking regret.

He had tried to _scream_ because it might have stopped him breaking things.

Coming down the stairs, the state of his home reminds him _that_ didn’t work either. The only truly neat spot in his field of vision is the sofa. Clyde has politely folded the quilt Malcolm loaned him and tucked it on top of his pillow. It’s a disorienting crumb of normalcy in the middle of the maelstrom.

He can smell coffee. The sound of the kettle heating and the rough crunch of metal against roasted beans lets him know that Clyde is still here. That he has not abandoned Malcolm Tucker in his time of need. Not that he ever has before. No, Clyde’s concern for his well-being has been so unwavering over the years that it’s alarming. He considers himself lucky that the man has never met his sister. It’s probably best for the balance of the universe.

Malcolm makes his way to the kitchen, picking his way through the debris of last night’s temper tantrum. He corrects the overturned armchair and is relieved to see that all four legs are still firmly attached.

“Malcolm? Have you joined the land of the living?” Clyde’s voice comes to him from the kitchen, emerging with two steaming mugs. Being roughly a decade his senior and the same height and build, Clyde has always felt like a portent of things to come. A glimpse of Christmas Future. And now, standing sinewy and sleep-deprived in the unforgiving light of day - he looks so _old_. He had told Malcolm once that years spent at the bottom of bottles pass double-quick. He wonders if the same adage holds true for years spent in Westminster.

Malcolm takes the proffered mug, noticing the way that both of their hands still tremble. Even after all this time.

“All I could find was bloody decaf,” Clyde grumbles, running his fingers through the ever-thinning mane of silver atop his head. “Though I’m assuming there’s a reason for that. You’ve never been the sort to accommodate _guests,_ heaven forbid. Anyway, enough blathering about fucking beans - we’ve got a hell of a mess to clean up this morning. I’m not leaving while your home looks like someone vandalized a Harrods. Rubbish bags are under the sink?”

Malcolm grunts in agreement, preparing himself for the arduous task of setting things to right. It’s funny - the relief is _never_ worth it. The release of pressure brought on by throwing or tearing or smashing some unfortunate object never once has outweighed the sticky shame of having to clean it up. He feels it now, crouching to pick up a pile of crumpled bits of mail. He had taken an arm to that ridiculous breakfast nook, clearing the damn thing in a single go - a cascade of sales flyers and back issues of The Economist that he hasn’t bothered to fucking touch. Sandwiched between these scraps of detritus, he finds that little orange piece of cardstock. Sam’s note.

He should call her.

As much as he wants to _pretend_ he’s alone - as many years he has spent telling himself that no one cares about Malcom fucking Tucker - he is surrounded by irrefutable proof to the contrary. His former assistant - who wrote him time and again in gaol, only to be ignored - has sent him a note. His sister won’t leave him alone. His sponsor is currently picking bits of broken glass from his carpet. Jamie - whatever _he_ was - is meeting with him in a few days. And the woman whose life he _ruined_ has spent the last several weeks in constant orbit around him. Has insisted on caring about him despite his best attempts to be thoroughly unlovable.

His stomach revolts at the memory of her lips against his, and redirects his attention to salvaging the cushion. The tear is nowhere near a seam. Any method of repair would be impossible to hide. And besides - he hates the damn thing anyway.

“These don’t go in any particular order, do they?” Clyde asks, maneuvering a stack of paperbacks back onto their shelf. Malcolm shakes his head. “You know what this reminds me of? My sister, Elise - the one with all of the dogs? Her husband’s from the states - his family lives in Florida, I think it is. One of those places that’s just miserably fucking hot and wet. Anyway, they had a monster of a hurricane a few years back. She showed me all of these photos of her in-laws' house. And there was all this _stuff._ Just laying about afterwards.”

Shoving the remains of the cushion into a rubbish bag, holding his breath so he doesn’t have to smell her again, Malcolm leans back on his heels. The weight of Clyde’s statement is a tad too much for him to handle in this compromised headspace. He knows what he’s describing - televised images of mud-caked toys and family photos. And yes, his sitting room does bear a striking resemblance.

But beyond that - the floodwaters of politics ran in and overturned his _life_. Malcolm is a piece of fucking driftwood. So is she. The pair of them are just water-damaged flotsam drying in the sun.

Malcolm’s phone chirps from _somewhere._ After a few minutes of searching, he finds the damn thing near-dead under the sofa. And is reminded of an appointment with his cardiologist in an hour. Lovely. It’ll take him about half that time just to get to the office. Which leaves him about thirty minutes to finish tidying and get ready.

Though there isn’t much left to clean. Clyde’s done a hell of a job. His house is actually neater than it was yesterday afternoon. After a quick shower and shave, he sees the man out, resolving to find _some_ way of thanking him for saving him in the eleventh hour yet again. Malcolm is finding that he owes the people around him far more than he is comfortable with.

The appointment does not go as smoothly as Malcolm would like. He spends much of it replaying the previous night over and _over and over_. Torturous images swim behind his eyes - her fingers over his in the car, a rain-drenched lock of hair hanging alongside her cheek, the flush blossoming at the hollow of her throat when his fingers curled _just_ the right way, that upward tilt that made her lips part so wonderfully. Each one is soiled by the worst remembrance of them all. He can see so _acutely_ the hurt in her eyes as she retreated from him, his joy turning to ash in his mouth. He thinks of this retreat when the blood pressure cuff is wrapped around his bicep. Of course he flubs the reading, clocking in at a deeply unsatisfactory 137/85. Nicola’s not just metaphorically breaking his heart. She keeps literally damaging the damn thing, too. 

Malcolm has also _lost_ weight in the weeks since his release, much to his physician’s disapproval. Most people weigh more outside of prison than in. At least that’s what he’s told. Then he’s hearing words like ‘unnecessary stress’ and ‘lifestyle changes’ and ‘cardiovascular longevity’. Malcolm nods at the right moments and frowns when he is supposed to. Tries his best to look like a chastised child. Mumbles along about eating less red meat and sleeping better. 

If only he could get a doctor’s note about avoiding _her_. A prescription to lay off the former party leaders.

Then maybe he wouldn’t be _seeing_ her right now.

He’s supposed to be listening to Sam. After leaving his appointment, he had taken a ride to the grocer’s near his home, picking up the odds and ends that keep him alive for another week. Everything purchased individually - a lone bulb of garlic, a single loaf of sourdough. A selection small enough to fit in a canvas tote slung over his shoulder. Surrounded by the hustle and bustle of a Saturday afternoon, he felt the desire for company. To have a voice alongside him, like the families and couples milling around on the sidewalk. He thought of the little orange card he had seen this morning and fished in his pocket for his phone.

She answers on the second ring. Flustered and breathless, the sound of an oven door slamming shut behind her. But she _answers_. Malcolm makes the requisite half-hearted apologies for not answering her repeated attempts to contact him since his arrest, before deftly steering the conversation towards her _._ It's so goddamn refreshing to walk along in the sun, listening to a friend tell him all about her new cat and her sister’s even newer baby - not thinking about Whitehall or his prison cell or his _anger_ or the events of yesterday. Existing in this bubble of normalcy. 

It pops with a glance at the opposite corner - the sun catches on her muted aubergine skirt suit, a striking contrast to the daffodils she bends to examine. She’s stopped at a florist, perusing the sidewalk display of spring blossoms. He can’t fathom what she’s doing in his neighborhood on a Saturday by herself - or why she’s dressed in the sort of thing she wore as Leader - the sort of thing he _made_ her wear, if he recalls their conversation from the previous evening. Her hair ruffles in the less-than-gentle March breeze, and Malcolm’s heart leaps into his throat. Time slows to a crawl, the sounds of the city fading to a gentle background hum. Should he go to her? Run across the street, dodging cars and cyclists to grab up a fistful of roses and prostrate himself before her feet? Like something from one of those Nora Ephron films that he’s sure she loves so much, even though he’s never considered it before. 

He realizes abruptly that he will probably never find out.

“Malcolm? Are you still there?”

Sam’s voice crackles on the other end of the line, the slight exasperation indicating that she’s been speaking for quite a while and that he _really_ should have something to say in response. Before he can answer, Nicola turns his way - there is a moment of terror, the fear that he will be caught standing in the middle of the sidewalk staring at her like an idiot - but then.

It’s not even _fucking her_. This woman - whoever she is - looks nothing like her. The woman across the street is merely a Nicola-shaped blur of brown and purple. He’s never felt quite so unhinged in his life. 

“Hello? Malcolm? Jesus fuck-”

“Sorry - I saw - I thought.” He stops to collect himself. What would he even say? Remember Nic’la, that woman I complained about nonstop for _years_? That anxiety-riddled frump of a politician? Anyway - I confessed my sins to her in the front seat of her Nissan and then she told me she used to fancy me and I made her orgasm on my sofa. And now I’m so thoroughly _fucked up_ by the whole ordeal that I’m hallucinating her purchasing flowers in the middle of my afternoon. He settles for brevity. “I thought I saw someone. Doesn’t matter. What were you saying?”

She sighs. He can hear the roll of her eyes through the receiver. “You know, I never would’ve told you this as an _employee._ But now that you can’t sack me, I think you should know that you aren’t a very good listener.”

“Fuck off with that, yeah? The fuck you mean - not a good listener?” Malcolm pauses for a moment to look before crossing the street. This is one of the most ridiculous accusations he’s heard in a while. “I’m a fan-fuckin’-tastic listener. My entire job was listening. I practically lived with my ear surgically attached to the fuckin’ ground. Not a good listener, my arse.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Sam huffs. “See? You can’t even properly listen to me now.”

He fumbles with his keys, precariously balancing the phone on his shoulder as he unlocks his door. “Alright, fine. I’m listening now, yeah? Explain it to me like I’m fuckin’ dense. Which apparently I am.”

“I’m saying this as a friend, but honestly? You just - I don’t know. You spent so much time _selectively_ listening. Constantly barraged by a shitstorm of information that you had to parse. I think you trained yourself to tune out everything that didn’t send up a red flag.” He hears a voice in the background - a shout about the game on the telly. Sam covers the mouthpiece for a moment with her palm, muffling her response before returning to their conversation. “You had to really - for your own sanity. But at the expense of _anything_ that didn’t fit your narrow view of relevancy. If it wasn’t a threat or something you could _weaponize_ , frankly? You just didn’t notice it at all.”

He’s so taken aback by her statement that he misses the counter entirely, his modest sack of shopping tumbling straight to the floor. Two satsumas roll across the tile floor of his kitchen.

“Did you even know I _had_ a sister until today?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Did you know that I’m deathly allergic to strawberries? That I’m color-blind or that I’m afraid of flying?”

Malcolm can’t answer - partly due to his shame at not knowing any of these things. But more than that. She’s _right._

For years - Nicola Murray was right there. Screaming herself hoarse. And he never heard her at all.


	9. thick as thieves.

**eight: use humor to release tension**  
lightening up can help diffuse tension  
use humor to help you face what's making you angry and possibly  
any unrealistic expectations you have for how things should go

“You know - Callum’s just his middle name, after her dad.”

He’s found a stick now, triumphantly poking it into a mud puddle several feet away. The boy has inherited every bit of Jamie’s gangly tenacity. Malcolm hasn’t seen him go totally still for a second since the two showed up on his doorstep. The Twister he bought him from the corner shop after lunch probably didn’t help much either. Especially after two sodas and a couple of Jaffa Cakes.

“Yeah? What’s his first name then?” Malcolm watches as he squeals happily at something in the puddle.

“Malcolm,” Jamie explains with a shrug. “I insisted on it.”

He has no idea what to say, fumbling helplessly. After things with Evie ended, Malcolm had given up on the lingering hope of an heir. There wasn’t time in his life for progeny. He probably wouldn’t be the best father anyway. But now this? Never in a million years - after the way they ended things? To name his _son_ after him -

“Jesus fuckin’ christ - you should see the look on your face right now,” Jamie howls, doubled over with laughter on the bench. He is reminded of Deb, seated in the same place two weeks ago. Funny how a fortnite can feel like an eternity. “D’you really think I’m that absolutely _fuckin’ mental_? Shit - you really thought? Egotistical fuckin’ dobber. Yeah - I’m gonna name my wee little son after Malcolm fuckin’ Tucker. Have him startin’ scrapes with all the other little boys on the playground. Get him one of wee plastic phones with the big smiley buttons and all. Let him squawk into it ‘till he’s apoplectic.”

Jamie smiles, taking a sip from his paper cup of coffee with a shake of his head. “His name's really Callum. Callum James MacDonald. Fuckin’ hell. I’m gonna soak my trousers if I don’t pull my shit together.”

“Alright - you’ve made your point,” Malcolm snarls, trying his best to stifle a grin. The boy laughs again - he’s found a frog in the puddle. The grin that spreads across his improbably large mouth, literally running from ear to ear, is so uniquely _Jamie_. Malcolm wonders if Jamie has ever smiled like that since he last saw him. He sincerely hopes that he has.

Malcolm had spent the better part of the last week - when he wasn’t thinking about _her_ \- speculating who Jamie was bringing along to London. He had never for a moment entertained the possibility that it would be Jamie’s _son_. 

He had met them at a nearby cafe - Jamie still hadn’t clarified who the mystery guest would be. He had assumed that it would be a boyfriend or a girlfriend or - God. A spouse even. But Malcolm walked in to see the man seated with a miniature version of himself, pawing at his grubby little hands with a sanitizing wipe. So occupied that he had not noticed Malcolm at all. When he arrived at the table with a slight cough to announce his presence, Jamie looked up and practically yelped. He threw himself upon his feet and wrapped Malcolm in a bone-crushing hug. Any worries that he possessed about the way Jamie felt regarding him melted away in an instant. They may not be what they _were,_ but they’re still closer to each other than anyone else. The past is the past. Callum made sure of that.

After leaving Malcolm’s employ, Jamie had bumbled around for a bit. He took a job as a campaign consultant for an American politician that he _refuses_ to name, spending a year in the states that he does not look back on too fondly. It was during that time that Callum _happened._ A simple tale of boy meets girl at a press mixer, girl takes boy back to hotel room, boy’s contraceptive device fails. A month later, Jamie was already on his way back across the Atlantic when he got the call.

While he and Mary-Anne have remained on the best of terms, they are not romantically involved. Their relationship revolves around their son and nothing more. He lives primarily in the states with his mother, Jamie taking him for a couple weeks every year depending on his work schedule. He visits him abroad when he can. There are constant cards and phone calls and Skype chats and gifts. As odd as it may seem to an outside observer, the three of them have figured something out that makes everyone happy. Callum most of all.

“Back to what we were talkin’ about - before the wee bairn over there distracted me.” Jamie gestures affectionately at the boy as he starts to roll in the grass, screeching lungfuls of air at the sky. “Let me see if I can get all of this shit straight in my head. You panicked and you told Nic’la all about Evie and the … incident?”

Malcolm nods solemnly. They had spent most of their time at lunch talking about Jamie - which was largely Jamie talking about his son. When he wasn’t helping him drink his soda and cutting his food and wiping his chin and listening to a stream of nonsensical babbling questions. The whole spectacle seemed so tiring - he can’t fathom how Nicola has done it four times over. It wasn’t until they had walked back to the nearby park that the topic of conversation had swung around to Malcolm. Which meant that it swung over to Nicola, Malcolm regaling him with a brief recap of the entire Nicola Murray ‘backbencher to leader to window-smashing widow’ saga. To Jamie’s credit, he listened without a scrap of jealousy. 

Malcolm is struck time and again by how much the child has turned Jamie into a man.

“And then - then you told her she made you have a fuckin’ heart-attack because you felt guilty about stabbin’ her right in the fuckin’ backside? Then _she_ told you that she actually loved you the whole time and you said -” Jamie stops for a moment, letting out a long low whistle with a glance at his shoes. “That you were _sorry_?”

He winces. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

“Right - so then you end up with your tongue in her gullet and your hand in her snatch and then you fuckin’ - hang on.” Jamie stops for a moment to watch the boy. He’s taken a tumble on the grass, an absolute header right into the ground. Callum hops up after a second, completely undeterred. There’s a healthy green smear along the front of his jumper. He shoots Jamie a clumsy thumbs-up. The boy must be made of silly putty. “So, you tell her that her hair looks nice and she goes absolutely fuckin’ mental on you because _you_ made her cut it. But you don’t even remember doin’ that?”

“You really have a way with words, don’t you? Right fuckin’ Homeric, you are,” he teases. It’s still a touch chilly out, even in the late afternoon sun. The next gust of air ruffles Malcolm’s hair and leaves him shivering. He tells himself that it’s the air making him cross his arms against his chest. That he doesn’t feel wildly defensive about the whole thing. “I remember everything - I’ve got a great fuckin’ memory. How do I not remember that? How do I forget something _I_ did?”

Jamie laughs to himself - this sharp pitiful thing. It’s the first moment of bitterness or reproach that he’s expressed in front of Malcolm all day. “No see - the problem is that you remember everything, yeah. But you remember everything the way _you_ see it. You get that? It’s like the fuckin’ old cunt with the cat in the box that he’s trying to kill.”

“What?” Malcolm struggles to follow whatever _that_ possibly means, groping around for every human/feline combination that could possibly exist in Jamie’s lexicon. “What the - Schrodinger’s cat?”

“Yeah you can’t - observing something _changes_ it.” Jamie snaps his fingers excitedly. Malcolm has hit the nail on the head. Not that he has any idea what one thing has to do with the other. “You remember the things perfectly but just - through Malcolm Tucker’s eyes. The same memory would look different from my eyes or Nic’la’s eyes. Memory means nothing without _interpretation_ , no? You can remember the exact words but if you don’t understand why they said ‘em - what’s the fuckin’ point?”

This is sounding eerily familiar. No one wants to hear that the foundation of their entire worldview for the past several decades of life is deeply flawed. But apparently that is what this particular park bench is for. Malcolm Tucker has been wrong for many _many_ years. Possibly all of them.

“Y’know, I talked to Sam the other day.”

Jamie brightens at the mention of her name, sitting up a little straighter. “Yeah? How is she?”

“She’s great.” Malcolm makes the evaluation in earnest - she really does seem to be doing well. She and Jamie have eclipsed him by far. If only Nicola had been so lucky. “Her sister had a baby.”

“Sarah? Fuckin’ excellent, that. They were trying for so long, last I heard.” He positively beams at the news. The fact that he not only knew her sister’s name but knew that she was trying to conceive - when Malcolm didn’t even know of her existence at _all_ \- only serves to make the same very painful point.

“Anyway - she told me I’m a terrible fuckin’ listener.” He stares at his hands and is reminded suddenly of the way Nicola looks at her own sometimes. The way they can seem so alien. These foreign agents of destruction. “That if I don’t think something is important to me I just don’t hear it.”

Jamie snorts reflexively. “She’s not wrong.”

“Jamie.” He’s not attuned to the vulnerability in Malcolm’s voice, the need behind his words. “Was I that bad?”

“How d’you reckon?” He quirks his head the same way that Rufus does, this simple befuddlement. Malcolm rubs at his temple, steeling himself before continuing. How he would love to sit here and watch Jamie and his son in quiet complacency. He doesn’t want to open this wound between them.

“I have a tendency to - I don’t know. To use people. To _consume_ them. I don’t realize I’m doing it but people get it in their heads that they owe something to me. They just let me burn them to a pile of ash.” He lowers his voice, folding his hands in his lap. Malcolm cannot bring himself to look at the man as he asks his question. “Did I do that to you?”

Before he can answer, Callum rushes the bench and flings himself into Jamie’s lap. A younger Jamie would’ve bristled at the mud being smeared against his trouser legs. This one instead maneuvers the boy into a more comfortable position, gently fluffing his curls with his hand.

“You have a tendency to - you attract people that need something to believe in. I found that I couldn’t believe in the church, not the way that I needed to. Certainly not the way that I believe in this little shite right here,” he adds, placing a dramatic kiss on top of the boy’s head. Callum makes a show of being properly disgusted by this display of affection. Malcolm can’t help but laugh. “But I could believe in _you._ Because you were always just so damned sure of yourself.”

If Jamie misplaced his faith in God - deciding instead to hitch himself to Malcolm’s wagon - then what did that say about her?

“What do you think Nic’la ..?“ He lets the question dangle in mid-air. Jamie squints for a moment, rattling the idea around in his brain. A frown tugs at the corner of his lips.

“I don’t think she knew how to believe in herself. But she could believe in Malcolm Tucker, alright. You just needed to believe in her back.”

His statement is so accurate that it feels like a punch to the stomach. Malcolm is left momentarily reeling. He considers hurling himself in front of a passing cyclist. But the impact wouldn’t do much more than bruise him something awful. And besides, Callum doesn’t need to see some old fuckwit like him get brained by a bike.

“Did you tell her how you _feel_?” Jamie’s question startles him. Sam’s insistence that he’s a terrible listener is really hitting home for him today.

“What?”

“The specs may make you look right swotty, but you’re still just as fuckin’ dense as ever. Useless fuckin’ geezer,” Jamie shakes his head. Malcolm can swear that Callum repeats ‘geezuhhh’ under his breath, his missing front teeth giving him an endearing little lisp. The kid’s going to grow up to have an incredible vocabulary. “You said you felt guilty and that you were sorry and then you snogged her bloody senseless.”

“Well, yeah.” Malcolm is failing to see the issue at hand.

“Right - but you didn’t tell her you actually _felt_ anything for her, did you? Just that you were sorry that she felt things for _you_ ," Jamie grimaces. Callum echoes the word ‘sorry’ in a soft burble, finally growing tired enough to settle his head on Jamie’s chest. “Do you not - do you not see where you might’ve colossally fucked up on that one? That right there might be the reason she’s not speaking to you, you reckless twat.”

He’s right. Nicola hasn’t been speaking to him - at all. Nary a word has passed between them in the week since she slammed his front door. When he arrived at class last night, he was dismayed to find that she had beaten him there. And was sitting on the _right_ side of the room, embroiled in a conversation with pierced-face guy. Wickman had looked at him with such curious pity for the entire hour that he thought he might end up tossed back in gaol. That Wickman’s bespectacled face might get sent clean through the window in a clear violation of several stipulations of his parole agreement.

“I - fuck. Shit,” he hisses through his teeth. This is a fantastically embarrassing oversight on his part. “No - but - fuck.”

“Other than giving her -” Jamie pauses to slip his hands over the boy’s ears, dropping his voice to a whisper to describe the illicit act, “a _handy_ on your sofa - have you indicated to her that you feel _anything_ other than remorse? Think from her perspective, Malcolm. I know it’s right hard for you to do.”

Malcolm’s mouth contracts in a moue as he flickers through the various conversations they’ve had the past few weeks. Jamie is right. He has never for a moment mentioned a feeling other than guilt. He has told her about his drinking and about his ex and about the accident and listened to her cry about a number of things. But never once has he verbally expressed anything resembling affection.

He simply said he was _sorry she loved him_ and then stuck his tongue in her mouth and started rooting around in her knickers.

Fucking.

Fuck.

Jamie crashes his pity party with all of the grace and tact he has come to expect from him over the years. Which is to say, absolutely none at all. “Your continued silence while you gape all slack-jawed into the middle-distance like your frontal lobe’s been thoroughly fuckin’ violated with an ice pick is telling me that’s a _no_ then, yeah?”

He manages to find it somewhere within himself to mutter a weak ‘no.’

“You fuckin’ prick. You foolish, self-absorbed cunt,” Jamie sighs. Malcolm waits to see which - if any - of those choice words Callum decides to repeat. Instead, he lets out a little yawn as he snuggles deeper into Jamie’s embrace. “You’re gonna go after her, right?”

“I’m gonna - what?” Malcolm stares dumb-founded.

“You are so fuckin’ dense,” Jamie huffs. “You love her, yeah?”

The simplicity of the question stops him in his tracks. Everything around him goes quiet. He thinks of so many moments - of shared smiles and petty grievances. Of hotel rooms and party conferences. Of sleepless nights and shaky victories and so many fucking pains. Of the smell of her hair and the way her eyebrows come together when she thinks. Of that tiny ache that winds through his ribs, like fingers gripping against the bone, when he considers the sheen of her viridescent eyes.

“I’m - I guess. Yeah. Fuck it, then.”

His lips part in a grin, a reckless abandon flooding through his veins. There’s an adrenal surge leaving him all fuzzy and warm. If he isn’t careful, he might start to shout. She has four children and a dead husband and a list of neuroses that would make Freud jealous and she is the single most mind-numbingly naive fucking shambling nightmare on the planet and she has the most _beautiful smile_ he’s ever seen.

“I love her. I do. I love Nic’la fuckin’ Murray, God help me.”

Jamie nods sagely, not looking up from the now fast-asleep boy in his grasp. He drools freely on his jacket. “Then you need to go after her.”

“Right. Yeah.” Hands shaking, Malcolm reaches into his pocket for his phone. He’s going to call her and he’s going to tell her right now that he _loves_ her - because he never should’ve waited this long in the first place. His thumb hovers over his contacts - and then his stomach drops. The whole situation is so _fucking absurd_ he has no option but to laugh.

“Fuck. I don’t have her mobile number.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from the song by The Jam [which is an exceptionally Jamie/Malcolm track.]


	10. please press one.

YOU HAVE REACHED THE VOICEMAIL BOX OF **NICOLA MURRAY**. IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO LEAVE A MESSAGE, PLEASE PRESS ‘ONE’ OR STAY ON THE LINE FOR MORE OPTIONS.

> Nic? Nic’la - I hope this is the right number - I mean. Yeah. Christ. It’s the right number. It just said your name so it’s obviously - fuck. Look I’m just. You know what? I’m gonna hang up and try this again. I’m just - **CLICK**

YOU HAVE REACHED THE VOICEMAIL BOX OF **NICOLA MURRAY**. IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO LEAVE A MESSAGE, PLEASE PRESS ‘ONE’ OR STAY -

> Ni’cla. It’s me - it’s. Fuck. Of course you know it’s me. Who the fuck else would…? Fuck. This is so thoroughly impossible. It should be so much easier than this - I’m sorry, yeah? I’m trying to tell you that I’m sorry. But that’s not what I - **CLICK**

YOU HAVE REACHED THE VOICEMAIL BOX OF **NICOLA MURRAY**. IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO - 

> Alright. I’m gonna get it right this time. Listen to this one, yeah? This is insane. This is completely fuckin’ mad but - I love you. There? Yeah. I love you and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner and I’m sorry about - all of it. I’ve been realizing lately that I’ve made a lot of mistakes and that - that I can be an ignorant fuckin’ shit sometimes. But it’s - it’s you. Yeah? It’s you - you were my girl, right? And I didn’t see it then - I didn’t fuckin’ appreciate it but I do now. I mean I really _really_ do now. I’m listening now. I hear you. Nic’la - I just want a chance. Just the one. Call me back. Or don’t. I just - thank you. Y’know. For driving me home. If I only get to kiss you the once - well. Thanks for that. I’m - fuckin’ christ - fuckin’ _shit_. Fuck. Bollocks. **CLICK**

YOU HAVE REACHED THE VOICEMAIL BOX OF **NICOLA** -

> I love you.
> 
> Call me back.
> 
> Or don’t - I’m gonna see you in about ten minutes anyway. Because I’m obviously fuckin’ mental.
> 
> **CLICK**


	11. pictures at an exhibition.

**nine: practice relaxation skills**  
when your temper flares, put relaxation skills to work  
imagine a relaxing scene, or repeat a calming word or phrase  
you might also listen to music or look at some art  
  
He is sitting on a bench.

A flat wooden thing that's intentionally uncomfortable, so as not to encourage too much loitering. He would find it just as uncomfortable as he is _supposed_ to if he could think about it at all.

But instead he stares - entranced by these massive blocks of red and black and maroon. These furious declarations of color and feeling, several feet high and covered in thick swaths of paint. They dwarf him. It’s almost claustrophobic - something about them makes him feel trapped. Seated in this personal torture chamber away from the throng. A string quartet - a group of students from the sound of it - plays timidly in the background. Their earnest playing is almost drowned out by the murmur of the crowd.

What an awful crowd they are, too. All of these stuffed-shirts and their has-been trophy wives, making their tax deductible donations and being seen by the right people. He doesn’t miss the circus. He doesn’t miss being beholden to twats like these - trapped in the revolving door of party events and press mixers and campaign fundraisers and handshakes.

“Well. Hello, then.”

Malcolm does not turn around at the intrusion. Partly because he does not need to. It’s her. He _knows_ it’s her. He could hear her voice in a chorus of hundreds.

But he also isn’t sure that he can. If he is able to withstand facing her after all that today has entailed. Everything after his revelation in the park has unspooled in a haze - the endless phone calls they made in a frantic attempt at securing her mobile number. Being crowded around Jamie’s cracked iPhone screen and looking at the Facebook event for her charity tonight, this private thing at the Tate. Passed hor d'oeuvres among student artwork. A silent auction. All of the trimmings and trappings that one would expect.

Sam had called them back twenty minutes later with her number. By that point he was already flinging himself into a taxi and headed across town with no clear plan beyond 'find Nicola and _say things.'_ The series of frantic messages he left her made the driver look at him sideways. If he wasn’t so currently wrapped up in this absurd flight of fucking fancy - and if he wasn’t also on parole - he would’ve felt compelled to tell him where exactly to step off.

“Malcolm? I just got a hold of my phone - it was in my handbag with the checked coats. I didn’t realize - I heard all of your messages. Just now.”

He can’t do it. He can’t bring himself to turn around, to tear his eyes from the decades-old smear of red paint. Malcolm usually hates this sort of thing. _Modern Art_. Abstract fuckin’ nonsense. Either paint a picture or don’t. This is just scribbling. But something about this - he feels this. He looks at these globs of dried pigment and something in him nods and says ‘ah, yes, that old chestnut.’

The click of her heels in the near-empty room - with its vaulted ceilings and lack of soft _anything_ \- feels like a threat.

She doesn’t say anything else. The clicks get closer until they are right next to him. He looks down at her feet, these tiny stocking clad things in black pumps. Malcolm shuffles over wordlessly, leaving an implied space for her. She does not take it.

“Are you gonna sit down or are you just gonna keep staring at me like that?” He huffs through his fingers, nervously pawing at his beard. The tap of her toes against the wooden floor is the only thing she offers by way of an answer.

“You’re a bit under-dressed for this, don’t you think?"

He relents, shifting his gaze from the painting to her. And where he once saw red there is only green - this deep pine shade that makes his heart stop in his throat.

Innocuously beginning at her feet, his eyes trail upward to the tailored black skirt that stops just shy of her calves. And while he feels particularly weakened by the way it darts in at her waist _just so_ , it is the blouse that truly undoes him. This verdant green silk that drapes and clings in just the right places - exposing enough of her decolletage to drive him insane.

He’s looking - obviously drinking her in with his eyes - and he doesn’t care if she sees. A self-satisfied little grin dances across her lips. She lingers in the attention for a moment, tucking a loose curl behind her ear, before modesty overcomes her and she retreats back within herself.

“How did you even manage to get in here? It’s a private event and you look like _that_ ,” she gestures at him dismissively, seated in his park-faring clothes from earlier in the day. His trousers are smeared with mud and bits of grass. It’s a deflection away from the massive pachyderm sitting in the room with them. Malcolm’s recorded declaration, in blinking magenta neon the length of the wall, humming and buzzing along under the sounds of bows across strings and the senseless babble of cocktail party chatter.

“Told the girl at the front that I’m part of the press for this. That I was already running late and my boss was gonna have my head on a fuckin’ pike and my balls on a smaller separate pike if I didn’t get him the additional camera battery he needed. Dropped enough of the right names that it seemed like I knew what I was talkin’ about, anyway.” He’s babbling now, nervously trying to fill the air. It’s not a habit he’s accustomed to.

Gently scuffing the toe of her shoe against the leg of the bench, she sighs. “Right. Like you’d be deterred by a coat check girl. How silly of me.”

There is a prolonged moment of silence. Nicola walks from him to the painting, crossing her arms and tilting her head as she pretends to examine it. As much as he admires her staunch commitment to civility, he can’t relate. If he doesn’t confront this he is going to explode. Or implode. Or whatever you call it when your heart gives out for good. “So you heard the - “

“Yeah. I did,” she bites out, leaning in towards the canvas. He can picture the little crease in her brow. The way her features furrow when she concentrates. Perhaps her lip is drawn between her teeth. It’s a terrible habit she has - worrying against the skin there.

“And what did you - do you -” He lets the remainder of the question hang in the air. A spillage of noise drifts in from outside. A woman cackles hard and bright and ungainly. Nicola rolls her head backward on her shoulders. There is a small shake of her head and he swears he can hear her laugh.

“You want a chance, yeah?”

The resignation to her voice suggests that he might’ve been mistaken. That it might've been a small sob instead. She turns to him and abruptly takes the seat beside him. Her eyes glimmer with a sick adrenal glint, that face one makes when they’ve decided to jump after all. To fling themselves from the airplane or the bridge or the high-dive into whatever waits below.

He stammers out a response. “That’s - what?”

“You said you wanted a chance. This is your chance. I am giving you that chance.” She smirks in disbelief. Her phone rattles around in the loose grip of her hands, her knee bouncing relentlessly with nerves. “God knows why. I feel like an absolute fucking fool for doing it but - this is your chance, Malcolm.”

He brings a hand to her knee, trying to will her into stillness. Her slight jump at the contact wounds something inside of him. “I can’t promise you I won’t fuck it up.”

“Thank you. For that. I mean - that goes without saying, doesn’t it?” When they were first reacquainted, there was so much self-pity. This clinging musk of depression swirling around her every move. This has since transmuted into self-hate. An inconsistent tic flashes across her features as if she is wincing away from some internal pain. He notes the way her fingernail rakes against the inside of her wrist and the little red welt that has formed there. “Did you mean all of that? Everything you - you know. The messages.”

Her doubt cuts him to ribbons - but he can’t help but feel that he’s earned it. Often, as a very small boy, small enough that Deb didn’t even exist yet, Malcolm would sit quietly in the kitchen with his mam while she darned socks. He recalls the way that the needle would methodically weave from one side to the other - not simply pulling the damaged fabric back together but instead creating something new in the space between. Something inside of Nicola has been torn. He is not sure if he can mend it, not entirely. But he can put something in its place.

By God, he’s going to spend every day trying. If that’s what it takes.

“Nic’la, it’s come to my attention that - I may have not been totally present in all aspects of my life for a great long while now. That I may have been operating a touch hyper-focused and more than a little ruthlessly. And - yeah. I think I might be in love with you.” She recoils at the admission, eyes darting to where his palm rests on her leg. He removes it - instead laying it gently atop her hands. “I’m not - I don’t expect you to do anything about that. I’m not holding you to it or anything. Because of last week, yeah? It didn’t mean anything. I mean - it doesn’t _have_ to mean anything. If you don’t want it to.”

She stutters in disagreement, her lip trembling softly. He cuts her off before she can argue the point. “What I’m trying to say is that I genuinely don’t expect you to feel anything for me other than wanting to shove me under a fuckin’ bus. Totally understandable. Not a problem.”

“I’d really appreciate it if you just shut the fuck up, Malcolm.” The softness of her hand as it cups the side of his face flies in direct opposition to the bitterness of her words. Her palm is warm against his cheek. He has to fight the urge to close his eyes - because he doesn’t want to stop looking at her. The way that her gaze keeps dropping to his mouth. “Really. Just shut up and let me make what is probably a _massive_ fucking mistake. Alright?”

He nods - in response to the question that she has asked aloud and to the one that remains unspoken. The question of permission.

Satisfied by his assent, she crashes her mouth against his. It is a kiss born of sorrow and rage and somehow so much salvation. She wounds him with her lips and heals him with a swipe of her tongue.

He did not dare to hope she would ever kiss him again. It's nice being proven wrong sometimes.

As much as he could linger here forever - breathing her air until some hapless security guard pried them apart and sent them home - there is something he needs to say. To look in her eyes and repeat until she believes him. However many times it takes. Until the words no longer have any meaning but are merely a collection of phonemes.

“I love you,” he murmurs against her jaw. She stiffens - he knows her well enough to recognize the oncoming panic. He stifles it with a thumb against her lip. “I don’t need you to say it back. I don’t _want_ you to say it back. Not yet. I don’t deserve it yet. I want to _earn_ it, okay? I want to make you fall in love with me and not some fucked off version of me that I used to be.”

He trails his hand from her mouth to her throat, watching in awe at the way her eyelids flutter in response. Her words tumble forward breathlessly. “I always knew who you were. I think that’s why it hurt so much in the end.”

It is his turn to wince. He does not want to address those times. He would like to bury them down in a deep dark fucking pit, never to be seen again. If he ever comes across Dan Miller he may very well reflexively thrust the man into oncoming traffic.

“How do you mean?”

“It wasn’t you. Whatever gnarled and twisted thing it was that sent me those stupid fucking flowers.” There is pity in her gaze again. But this time it is not for herself. It is for him and him alone. “It wasn’t _you_. Not anymore, anyway.”

“What was I, then?”

He had always imagined that his fall - and the dismantling of Nicola that went along with it - was his logical endpoint. That it was the final page of a book five decades in the making. And if _that_ wasn’t the man she thought he was, then he is left to wonder how she sees him at all.

“What _am_ I, Nic’la?”

She sits for a moment pondering her answer. Preparing one of her little diatribes. The woman from earlier laughs again, brasher and uglier than before and it sets his teeth on edge. He wonders how her companions can possibly stand her.

“You’re - “ She begins, groping for the right words. Then she smiles. A real smile. Certain and serene. “The sort of man who gate crashes a party only to sit in an empty room full of Rothkos and seethe. The sort of man who never looks forward, but never looks back either. The sort of man who only looks at right now. Consequences to himself be damned. The sort of man that makes people _fear him_ because once a very long time ago he wanted to be liked and that drove him right into a fucking tree.”

The crescendo that has overtaken her ebbs somewhat. She looks at her hands and the certainty of her grin is replaced by a quiet awe. “The sort of man who falls in love with _me_. Of all possible options.”

The urge to break the tension is too great and before he can stop himself Malcolm is reverting to his old tricks. Succumbing to his constant desire to poke fun. To sidestep with a bit of self-deprecation. “I don’t know what options you think I have laying around -”

“See? Shooting yourself in the foot again. Because you can’t stand just being vulnerable. Miserable fucking bastard,” she caresses the insult, delivering it with the same timbre of affection as a well-earned pet name. Before he can kiss the words away from her lips, a voice echoes from the entrance behind them.

“Ms. Murray?” Malcolm swivels his head around to see a beleaguered looking young woman with an iPad nervously poking her head into the empty gallery. She clears her throat politely before continuing. He notices with great pleasure that Nicola does not move away from him in embarrassment or shame. “There’s a gentleman from the Harris Foundation who’d like to speak to you. And we need a few more photographs with - “

Nicola trills her lips in annoyance, waving her hand in the air with a grimace. “Yes. Thank you, Abigail. I’ll be just another moment.”

The girl nods and shuffles awkwardly from one foot to the other before turning and heading back out into the crowd. Nicola squints at him, an idea hatching inside of her skull.

“Listen - why don’t we just start over? I mean _really_ start over. Wipe the whole damn slate clean.”

“How do you mean?” As much as he loves the idea of a new beginning, he isn’t quite sure what she possibly has in mind. How the two of them could ever start over in any sense of the phrase.

“Hello, my name’s Nicola. You’re not bad looking. You seem interesting.” There’s a hint of pleasant hysteria in her voice. This golden shade of amusement and hope. She rests her head against his shoulder, cradling her face into his chest. “This party is terribly dull and you’re the only gent here that I’ve taken a fancy to. There’s a chip shop a few streets over, if you want to grab something to eat. Maybe talk for a bit?”

“Ah. Well, Nic’la,” he purrs in response. It’s been a long time since Malcolm went on a _date_. He gently toys with a lock of hair dangling by her ear. “That’s awfully forward of you - I appreciate a bit of brass in a lass. My name’s Malcolm. And I’d like that a lot, actually.”

With a mischievous flourish, he brings his head lower and drops his voice to a quiet growl. “You’re not bad looking yourself, y’know. I thought I made that pretty clear - “

“Starting over, remember?” Nicola cuts him off with a snort and playful slap against his chest.

Starting over.

 _That_ doesn’t sound half bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LET IT BE SAID: I always had this scene of Malcolm and Nicola kissing in front of The Seagram Murals in the room full of Rothko paintings at the Tate as a key scene for this story. I did not get to the bit in Rebecca Front's book solely about looking at a room full of Rothko paintings until last week. Pure happenstance. Divine coincidence. Kismet etc etc.


	12. end of the line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to _everyone_ who has been keeping up with this nonsense. but a particular shout out to both [Sweatingherladybollocksoff ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweatingherladybollocksoff) and [Racingincircles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/racingincircles) who continuously inspire me with _their_ writing.
> 
> which you all should be reading as well.

**ten: identify possible solutions**  
instead of focusing on what made you mad  
work on resolving the issue at hand.  
  
“Fuck you.”

A crisp lands on his chest, colliding with his shirt and tumbling to the ground. He brushes away the stray crumbs, then brings his fingers to his mouth and licks away the salt.

“C’mon, Nic. You’ve got to _mean_ it.” She petulantly flicks another crisp at him. Instinct dictates that he flinch - and it ends up nailing him right in the face. He hadn’t realized until tonight how much he enjoys making her laugh. The giddiness that races from his scalp to his toes when he realizes that she’s smiling for him.

Not at him. Not despite him.

_For him_.

“Fuck you.” She tries it again, the bag crinkling as she fishes around for another crisp. They really _had_ intended on getting actual food. He waited for her on the museum steps for what felt like a minor eternity. Terrified that she wouldn’t come. That it was all some kind of crude joke or elaborate hallucination.

In reality it had taken her only half an hour to disentangle herself and shunt all of her remaining obligations onto her assistant, Abigail. But that was enough time for the chip shop to close for the evening. They had stared blankly at the locked door for several minutes before stumbling around for another block or so. Eventually they came upon a corner shop and snagged an armload of absolute junk.

He’s still prying bits of a Curly Wurly from his molars as he leans against the stone barrier between them and the river.

“Really feel it. Let it out from your gut. Breathe in with your diaphragm.” Malcolm demonstrates, inhaling deeply with a hand on his stomach. This earns him another thrown crisp. He’s beginning to wonder if she’s eaten any of them at all.

“Oh, come off it,” she pouts, tugging his coat around her shoulders. They had left in such a rush that she had forgotten her own. At the first sight of a shiver, he had wordlessly removed his and wrapped her in it. He has never thought of himself as a particularly large man - but the way that it dwarfs her does unsavory things to him. It makes him wonder how she would look in his shirts. How she would fit in his bed. In his bathtub. In his arms. “I’m not going to shout at you in front of people.”

Malcolm glances around them. There’s hardly anyone here - there is a jogger several meters away and a nearby family of what seem to be American tourists. None of them are looking their way.

“Nobody here knows you. Nobody fuckin’ remembers you,” he adds, not unkindly. It does not make her wince any less. He rushes to correct the gaffe. “And if they _did_ \- then they’d know who you were yelling at. And they’d probably join in. Who wouldn’t want to heckle Malcolm Tucker? C’mon. We’ll set up some stocks and charge admission. Maybe sell some overripe fuckin’ tomatoes for people to lob at me.”

A laugh again. This effervescent peal that twinkles like a star. Brighter than the lights of the city across the water. The high is more potent than any drug he’s ever subjected his battered body to. It leaves him lightheaded. He wonders if his feet are still touching the ground. 

“Fuck you,” she sputters out between giggles. Closing her eyes, she inhales deeply, attempting to regain her composure before trying again. It still comes off flat. Judi Dench she is not. “Fuck you!”

It was his idea. They had walked for so long that their feet grew sore, talking about her children and the last films they had seen and what constitutes a proper pizza topping. [She is _very_ fond of olives. In a borderline devotional capacity that he cannot begin to understand and lacks the wherewithal to argue about.] Nicola had snapped at him for walking too fast - he hadn’t realized that she had slowed down to take off her shoes until he was comfortably settled against the barrier and became aware of the empty space next to him. He had joked that she couldn’t properly tell him off, as much as he was owed a good dressing down. She insisted that she could.

Nicola has thus far been unsuccessful.

“Nope. C’mon. I know it’s in there somewhere,” he chides. He searches his brain for something, _anything_ to rile her with. Then, it occurs to him. An anecdote that young Mr. Reeder had once drunkenly shared with him at a party function. “You’ve said it when I wasn’t in the room - Ollie was telling me about a cushion once that got rather abused - “

“Oh, _fuck you._ ” She snarls, her voice dropping to a warm dark place he was not aware existed. 

Making her laugh is one thing. Making her _growl_ at him is another. Running his tongue along his teeth, he grins. “See? There it is. That right there. More of that.”

“Fuck you, Malcolm.” She angrily jams the empty crisp packet into the pocket of his coat, taking a step away from him. The edge to her voice - he recalls a bit more detail to the story. Ollie had mentioned her saying _fuck_ and his name over and over again and how if you thought about it, it sounded like something else - something _nasty_ and - oh. He can feel a pathway in his brain rewiring, a Pavlovian association budding between two formerly very separate concepts. 

“Fuck you! There? Is that loud enough?”

She’s yelling now. Genuinely shouting at him. He’d be concerned if she wasn’t smiling a little - and if his blood flow wasn’t taking a distinctly southward turn.

“Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you _fuck you_ \- “ 

He stops her, catching her wrist in his hand and pulling her harshly against him. Nicola is startled enough by the shift that she tumbles forward and careens into his chest. It is a bit of strain - she’s so fucking little without her shoes on - but Malcolm drops his head as much as he can. His chin sits somewhere near her ear.

It is a gamble, true. Yet Malcolm decides to go all in, opting for a threatening whisper.

“Fuck me, yeah? Is _that_ what you want?“

There is silence - he feels the rise and fall of her shoulders as she struggles to catch her breath. To perform the conversational u-turn he just dropped in her lap. She does not attempt to leave his grasp. He hopes that it isn’t shock - that she’s actually okay with this. That she _wants_ what he’s offering.

“Nic’la - sweetheart. I’m asking you a fuckin’ question-”

“God yes,” she whines against his shirt. Her head snaps up to look at him - and he sees it again. That surge of adrenaline that she had in the museum, before she had offered him that chance he so desperately craved. Only this time she’s grinning like a fiend and there’s this delightful pink flush on her throat. She brings a hand to her forehead. “Fuck you - me - I … yes. Let’s - we need to call an Uber or something.”

“Let me get my shoes.” Wriggling from his grasp, she hunts for her heels. He stands for a moment, watching her struggle to get them on without sitting or leaning against something, the way her ankles teeter clumsily. She looks up briefly and flashes him an exasperated glare. “Fucking - your place. _Now._ Seriously.”

The ride passes like a dream, the pair of them acting like teenagers. She keeps _giggling_ nervously every time he says anything at all. He can swear that her hand actually trembles when she places it on his knee, rubbing a thumb along the fabric of his trousers.

His own shakes just as hard when he opens the door, and he prays his palm isn’t too damp when he helps her out of the car. If it is, she doesn’t seem to care.

She’s so unnervingly close to him on the front steps that he actually drops his keys while trying to unlock the door. The visual of him fumbling around on the ground by her feet for the damn things amuses her to no end. Something tells him that he will hear about this for years to come. He catches himself in the thought - the idea that there will even _be_ such years is news to him.

The moment the lock clicks behind them, she throws herself against him. This tiny thing grasping at his shirt for leverage, fingers tugging at the fabric like a life raft in the middle of a turbulent sea. She kisses like she is afraid he will ask her to stop. Each one searching for approval.

“Nic,” he groans against her, pulling back from the kiss. There is an involuntary whimper of protestation on her lips. “Y’know we can take our time, yeah? I’m not gonna change my mind. This isn’t - slow down. I’m not fuckin’ going anywhere.”

“Yeah. Okay. You’re right,” she nods sheepishly. “Besides - if I don’t take these shoes off again, I’m going to scream. And the back of my throat tastes like a packet of Monster Munch. May I have some water or something?”

It is his turn to laugh now. The woman was ready to shag him against his front door - but is apprehensive about asking for _water._ A riddle wrapped in a fuckin’ enigma wrapped in anxiety and green silk. He waits for her to pry off her heels before taking her by the hand and leading her to the kitchen.

She halts before entering. A pained look flickers across her face as he hands her a Pellegrino from the fridge. The coat is still over her shoulders, but her blouse is slightly untucked and her lipstick is smeared and her hair is beginning to do that _thing_ it does where it expands into some kind of nebulous cloud. She looks distinctly lost all of a sudden. Like a somnambulist who’s been interrupted.

“What’s wrong?” His stomach plummets and his mouth goes dry. Fuck. Maybe he should have just shagged her against the front door after all. He replays the last few minutes, trying to figure out what it is he could have possibly done to spoil the mood. “Are you having second thoughts - that’s fine if you are we can stop, we can just watch telly or something or - “

She waves his apprehension away with a hand. “God no. No - it’s stupid. I mean it’s really foolish and it’s embarrassing and I’m not sure I can tell you.” Her voice trails off at the end, hugging the coat tighter around her shoulders. If it’s important enough to stop her in her tracks, then it’s something they’re going to need to talk about now rather than later.

“You can try, yeah? I think I’ve seen all the worst you have to offer, if I’m being totally honest here.” He sets his water on the counter and goes to her, taking her free hand in his. As if the gesture will give her the strength to continue. “And you’ve certainly seen the worst of me.”

“It’s just that - I always imagined - this silly daydream of mine.” She bites at a thumbnail, grimacing at herself. “This fucking schoolgirl crush sort of thing. The grown-up equivalent of scribbling your name in my diary. Of writing ‘Mrs. Malcolm Tucker’ in different pens to see which one I liked best.”

All of the air rushes out of his lungs at the sound of his name in that context - the way it casually falls from between her lips. He does his best to compartmentalize, to pack the sensation away to examine at a later time when he is alone. Because right now she needs him to focus on _this_ and not a future he had never until now considered.

“Yeah? What d’you mean?”

She takes a swig of her water before elaborating, swallowing hard. Nicola cannot bring herself to look directly at him, instead choosing to stare at a point near his toes. 

“You always had those dinner parties for the journalists. You’d throw lunches or brunches or whatever. And other people would talk about it and I’d imagine being there. I’d pretend that I was invited too and I don’t know - I’d say something witty and impress you and you’d smile and put your arm around me. I guess I’d imagine that they were _our_ parties. Which is _really_ insane, now that I’m saying it out loud. And then I’d think about James and I’d feel just riddled with guilt - which is fucking ironic isn’t it?”

The laugh she lets out is not like the ones he has come to enjoy. It is a small wounded noise, like the heel of a shoe against a shard of glass. A sharp little crunch. He gently takes the beverage from her hand, placing it on the table behind her.

“God. What a tame and insipid little fantasy. Dinner parties. Brunch. Making some middle-tier hack from The Times look silly just to make you _smile._ ”  
  
All they’ve ever wanted to do was make each other smile. Funny how they’ve only ever achieved the opposite. Tentatively, he brings his hands to the lapels of his coat, dragging it over her shoulders and draping it over a chair. She shivers at the loss of warmth, and in response he clutches her against him, cupping the back of her head with his palm.

“If you want me to throw a couple of dinner parties, I’ll fuckin’ do it. As many as you like. Every night of the fuckin’ week,” he whispers against her hair. The scent of it surrounds him. This time it does not bring him pain. He hopes that it will not do so again. “Just none of those cunts from The Mail, yeah?”

She looks up at him with a smirk. “You really are trying to _earn_ me, aren’t you?”

“Every single fuckin’ second,” he snarls. In a departure from their established pattern, he makes the first move, claiming her mouth with his. Her knees buckle and he slides his hands to her waist to support her weight. “You do still want to - y’know -”

“Oh. Yes. That. Absolutely.” Her voice cracks, tongue tripping over the words, a red bloom spreading across her cheekbones. He knows that the skin there would be hot to the touch. That if he were to brush back her hair, the tips of her ears would be ruddy and crimson.

The trip upstairs is agony. He is consumed by the old Orphean terror - the certainty that the only thing following him is empty air and that he has been played the fool.

He is proven wrong by fingers lacing with his.

Her first impulse upon shutting the bedroom door splinters his soul. Nicola reaches for the switch on the wall, instinctively wanting to turn out the light.

“Leave that fuckin’ light on.” It is the most steel he has dared to put in his voice since they had worked together. He allows himself to momentarily give her an _order_. It is immediately disagreeable against his tongue, bitter and raw.

She stammers without thinking. “Are you sure - “

“Am I sure? What the fuck kind of question is that?” As he watches the way her eyes shift from side to side, wringing her hands and shuffling on her feet, he is forced to ask himself why he ever entertained the idea that anything with her would be _easy_. And if he would enjoy it at all if it were. “Do you not want to see me?”

“No! No. Of course not. I just - _me._ ” It is all the explanation she will offer, as if her statement is the most obvious thing in the world. That strange rictus grin she adopts - that pained reflexive wince - flashes across her features again. Malcolm does not enjoy seeing it in this context.

He takes a breath. And then another. “What the fuck d’you mean, ‘you’?”

“I mean - I don’t know. My husband was so thoroughly disinterested in shagging me that he _died._ ” 

And there it is. Fucking hell. It is one thing to tell her self-deprecating jokes and to promise her brunches but this - this is different. This is the thing that makes her break things. Like car windows and coffee cups and kisses. There is a deep crevice in the fabric of her _being_ and he feels woefully ill-equipped to heal it.

“Wow. Okay. That’s - I can’t even _begin_ to tell you how non-fuckin’-sensical that is. That’s fuckin’ ridiculous. Christ alive.” He’s gesticulating again like he used to - throwing his hands around in great useless arcs. But that approach doesn’t work here. He can’t simply _yell_ her out of it. Time to try something else. “Look - c’mere.”

She arches an eyebrow at him, arms firmly tucked across her chest. He must remind himself that her tenacity is usually quite endearing. Reaching out, he grasps her hand and drags her to the en suite, despite her shuffling resistance. Malcolm plants a hand on each hip and positions her in front of the sink.

“Look,” he implores her, coming to rest behind her. Their reflections stare back at them from the mirror, his face hovering above her shoulder. Malcolm is going to mend this. This is the first of thousands of stitches to come. “D’you not see what I’m seeing? You’re fuckin’ gorgeous. Really. I can’t remember the last time I wanted someone like this. Your hair - your fuckin’ smile. That grin does my head in every single fuckin’ time.”

Just referencing the damn thing makes it appear. Her lips curl despite her attempts otherwise.

“Your throat. This beautiful fuckin’ throat of yours.” Malcolm trails his fingers from her hips to her neck, gently raking the tips along its length. She shudders as he moves onward, loosening the buttons of her blouse and slipping it off her shoulders, letting it gently flutter to the floor. “You never show your shoulders and I don’t know why because _fuckin’ hell,_ look at them.”

She tries to turn away, but he nudges her face forward again with his. Their eyes lock in the mirror - gunmetal on green - and the intensity threatens to undo him. He lowers his gaze to her chest, ghosting a thumb across the twin freckles on her collarbone. “These - right here. God. I’ve wanted to taste them for so long.”

Nicola squirms against him - her eyes are starting to swell like she may actually fucking cry. But he can’t stop. This is the first time in his life that he’s ever _built_ something instead of knocking it down. “Malcolm this is ridiculous - “

“I’m not done yet. I’m not - they used to make statues like you, you know that?” He reaches for the zipper of her skirt, easing it down past her hips and over her stockings, letting his hands drag across her stomach. “You look like something carved from marble. Some poor bastard in a toga with a chisel would’ve agonized over you for months, trying to capture this in stone.”

Nicola has begun to cry in earnest. Joyous and effortless. Tears puddling up silently until they spill out, rolling evenly down her cheek. Like raindrops on glass. He brings his lips to the base of her neck - that beautiful curve before her shoulder - and hums against the skin.

“Malcolm -”

“I’m not gonna tell you again. I’m not done. You’re so strong. You’ve made four fuckin’ human beings. Your body has grown four _people_. And God - this?” Hooking his thumbs in the waistband of her stockings, he rolls them down along her legs, letting her step out of them when they pool at her feet. He grips her arse playfully, and she chokes out a laugh. “Phenomenal. You really make a case for taking the stairs more often, yeah? Start some kind of public awareness campaign about it. Got to thank your catastrophic aversion to lifts for this and for _these_ fuckin’ things.”

When he gestures at her calves, Nicola quirks an eyebrow. He’d be incredulous too. It had not occurred to him until very recently how strongly he felt about them. How much he wants to feel them locked around him - to make them _shake_.

“It’s like you said - _of all possible options_. You.” He finally relents and allows her to turn and face him. There is too much fabric between them - the cotton twill of his shirt presents an insurmountable barrier against her bra. He wishes so desperately to feel the heat of her skin against his. But there will be time for that later. “And I’ve had a _lot_ of options over the years. More than I’m fully willing to disclose if I’m being honest. But I have never _once_ \- not for a second - felt anything approximating the hunger I feel right now. For _you_.”

“Nicola Alison Murray.”

There are so many things to learn about her. All of them are things he will file away in the galleries of his mind - not because he has to but because he _wants_ to, for once. The way that she tastes and the spot just below her bottom rib that makes her squeal and the feel of her teeth when they scrape against his thumb and the fact that she is _loud_ when she wants to be - beautiful and exuberant and appreciative in a fashion that he would never have dreamed.

But above all - Malcolm has learned something about himself.

Because every other time he has lain with someone else - Evie or Jamie or one of the nameless horde of one night stands - Malcolm has felt restless. A roll in the hay has never lent itself to a good night’s sleep. He has crept out of windows and down flights of stairs, quietly called taxis and snuck out of front doors with his shoes in his hands. God forbid someone _sleep_ in his bed. That just led to hours of _staring_ at his ceiling.

This time is different.

After she is gone [because she cannot stay, as much as she wants to - because she has children at home who will ask very uncomfortable questions that she is not yet prepared to answer] Malcolm finds that his eyes have grown too heavy to stay open. A bone-deep exhaustion has claimed him, pushing his body into the mattress.

Malcolm can rest. Malcolm is _home._ In the place where the pillows smell of lavender and roses.

As he allows himself to slip into unconsciousness, he thinks only of those emerald eyes.

He does not think of them with pain.

He thinks of them with hope.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one: if you are the sort of person that likes these things [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3h8NCVGrz0DwSuc2ct9OmZ) is a playlist based on Malcolm's POV for this whole shebang. with bonus [Nicola POV](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5QW8CqDCUAmmqSv3zWCp8o) mix! because I am insufferable like that! 
> 
> two: I assumed mostly everyone here had also read my other big malcola piece [skin contact] and had seen the discord server link. this is not the case! so for anyone who missed it [ here](https://discord.gg/pABMhp3jk3) is an invite to our little cabal. come enjoy healthy discourse about British vs American cuisine, endless Malcola speculation and a whole lot of pictures of Rebecca Front. Like. A _lot_ of pictures of Rebecca Front.


End file.
